"Phew!" he gasped, sinking back into his chair caressing the bump with
an unsteady hand. "That--that did startle me, Griggs!"
"I shouldn't wonder," I smiled. "What on earth did you have concealed
up there?"
"Aha! You'd never guess," remarked Hawkins, his ill-humor departed.
"No, I don't believe I should," I mused, staring at the pile of canvas
on the floor. "Did the painters leave it?"
"They did not," replied Hawkins coldly. "That, Griggs, is the Hawkins
Crook-Trap!"
"Hawkins--Crook-Trap!" I repeated.
"That's what I said," pursued the gentleman. "Possibly--now--it may
not be past your understanding to grasp why I feel so secure about
that flimsy little silver-safe."
"I think I see. The burglar, presumably, comes in at the window, is
knocked senseless by your trap, and next morning you find and capture
him as you go down to breakfast?"
"Nothing of the sort. Look here." Hawkins picked up the affair.
As he grasped the end, the thing hung downward and showed itself to be
a long canvas bag, fully large enough to contain the upper half of the
average man.
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