“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. It was distended, too, by ribs, and appeared to be of considerable weight. “There she is--just a bag, telescoped and hung on a frame above the window. The burglar steps in, the bag is released, drops over him, these circular steel ribs contract and clutch his arms like a vise--and there you are! How's that for an idea, Griggs?” “Looks good,” I assented. “Moreover, the same spring which releases the ribs breaks a bottle of chloroform,” continued the inventor enthusiastically. “It runs into a hood, is pressed against the burglar's nose, and two minutes later the man is stark and stiff on the floor! “Meanwhile the annunciator bell tells me what window has been opened. I ring up the police--and it's all over with the man who tried to break in.” “It sounds all right,” I admitted. “Why didn't it do all that just now?” “Just now? Oh--you mean--just now?” stammered the inventor. “Well, it did do practically all of that, didn't it? The window wasn't opened, anyway--it was the breeze that knocked down the thing. Furthermore, the ones on this floor aren't adjusted yet--I only got them from the fellow who made them to-day. “But up-stairs they're all fixed--chloroform and all, ready for the burglar. I tell you, Griggs, when this crook-trap of mine is on every window in New York City, there'll be a sensation in criminal circles!” “Very likely. How much does it cost?” “Um--well--er--well it cost me about--er--one hundred dollars a window, Griggs, but----” “About twenty windows to the average house,” I murmured. “Two thousand dollars for----” “Well, it won't cost a tenth of that when I'm having the parts turned out in quantities,” cried Hawkins, with considerable heat. “Why under the sun do you always try to throw a wet blanket over everything? Suppose it does cost two thousand dollars to equip a house with my crook-trap? If a man has ten thousand dollars' worth of silverware, he'll be willing enough to spend----” I laughed. It wasn't meant for a nasty laugh at all--it was simply amusement at the inventor's emotionalism. But it riled Hawkins. “Where the devil does the joke come in?” he thundered. “If I----” “Hush!” I cried. “I won't hush! I----”