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So it was Roux made Loeffler's prophecy come true; it was that way he discovered the fluid messenger of death which trickles from the insignificant bodies of diphtheria bacilli. But he stuck here; he had explained how a diphtheria germ murders babies but he had found no way to stop its maraudings. There was that letter from the mother—but Roux's researches petered out into various directions to doctors how to grow germs pure out of children's throats at the bedside, and into suggestions for useful gargles. . . . He hadn’t Pasteur's tremendous grim stick-to-itiveness, nor his resourceful brain.

But away in Berlin there toiled another Émile—the Germans leave off the last "e"—Emil August Behring. He worked in Koch's laboratory, in the dilapidated building called the "Triangel" in the Schumann street. Here great things were stirring. Koch was there, no longer plain Doctor Koch of Wollstein, but now a Herr Professor, an eminent Privy Councilor. But his hat still fitted him; he peered through his spectacles, saying little; he was enormously respected, and against his own judgment he was trying to convince himself he had discovered a cure for tuberculosis. The authorities (scientists have reason occasionally to curse all authorities no matter how benevolent) were putting pressure on him. At least so it is whispered now by veteran microbe hunters who were there and remember those brave times.

"We have showered you with medals and microscopes and guinea-pigs—take a chance now, and give us a big cure, for the glory of the Fatherland, as Pasteur has done for the glory of France!" It was ominous stuff like this Koch was always hearing. He listened at last, and who can blame him, for what man can remain at his proper business of finding out the ways of microbes with Governments bawling for a place in the sun—or with mothers calling? So Koch listened and prepared his own disaster by telling the world about his "Tuber-