He was halted in the midst of his talk by the way Haworth was staring at him. It wouldn’t have surprised him to get an indication on the fellow’s face that he’d just thought of one of his devices that would be what was wanted. But that wasn’t it. For soon he saw that the young inventor was studying _him_—figuring out what sort of a character he really was. Those strange and troubled eyes were fixed on him with an intense scrutiny that penetrated below the surface. To divert this rather too close attention to himself, Pentecost spoke with more emphasis than before. “I see you’ve thought of something, Mr. Haworth.” There was no verbal response to this, but a barely perceptible motion of his head while still gazing intently at Pentecost, might be taken to mean that he had. “Anything near what we’re looking for, do you think?” “I don’t know.” “I hope it’s something unusual,” Pentecost said, cheerfully; “some novelty that’ll make ’em talk.” “It will do that.” “What made you say just now that you hadn’t anything I’d want?” “This is something else.” Pentecost was inclined to think the fellow had illusions. Anyone could see there was something wrong with him. “Well, bring it along,” he suggested. “Let’s have a look at it.” The answer was a slight negative head-shake. “Too heavy?” “It’s built in.” “Where?” “Under here—in the basement.” “I see. Something to operate in a home. What does it do?” “I want you to come down.” “Certainly, Mr. Haworth. Lead the way.” Notwithstanding that Pentecost felt convinced that the young man had signals set for some sort of brain storm and that he himself knew a thing or two about basements in relation to crime, the notion of not going down there when the distracted inventor suggested the idea, didn’t come within miles of occurring to him. He had a hunch there was something here for him—something extraordinary, too—and he was going after it. Haworth moved nearer. “Mr.——What did you say your——” “Pentecost.” “Mr. Pentecost, I’ve decided to tell you everything.” “The best thing you could do Mr. Haworth.” “I find you’re the person I’ve been looking for.” “You’re very kind to say so. Shall we go down and have a look at it?” From Haworth’s last remark, Pentecost feared that after all he was hopeless. “I’ll get the key.” “Secret, eh?” “Yes.” “No patent?” Haworth shook his head. “What about the people you’ve shown it to?” “There are none.” “And you haven’t told anybody?” “No.” That sounded better. The chap had some sort of sense, anyway. But not the sense to patent it. That was too bad. “The key’s upstairs.” And he started toward the entrance hall. “Could we switch on a light here, Mr. Haworth? It’s a trifle overcast.” “I’ll tell Mrs. Temple to light a lamp,” the young man answered from the door, and he hurried out.