Suddenly Hiram's attention was caught by something on the floor just under the nearest corner of the odd table, or box, in the middle of the room. It was a tiny, cone-shaped heap of grain—wheat, he thought. It had dribbled through the bottom of that box by some tiny hole, it was plain, and had fallen unnoticed to the floor.
There was something odd about this grain—something that immediately attracted Hiram's particular interest. When Battick's back was turned he stooped sideways from his chair and secured one of the kernels of wheat between his thumb and finger. He placed it in his palm and studied it minutely.
The kernel of wheat was different from any grain he had ever seen. First of all, it was a very large, plump grain, perfectly formed, and upon one side was a tiny yet distinct red stripe.
Suddenly Hiram looked up from the grain in his hand. Battick had made a strange move. He had set the skillet down on the hearth and was reaching for the shotgun. His eyes seemed to glow and a deep flush was diffused over the man's forbidding looking countenance.
Hiram Strong was amazed and startled at his host's appearance.
"What is the matter, Mr. Battick?" cried the visitor. "What are you doing with that gun?" for the man had seized it now.
"Hush!" hissed Yancey Battick. "I think I see a rat!"
CHAPTER III
INVENTOR'S LUCK
The thought had been impressed upon Hiram Strong's mind from the very first that there was something altogether wrong with Yancey Battick. His wild eyes and excited manner now convinced the visitor that this suspicion was correct. Battick was not altogether sane. And when he reached for that rock-salt loaded shotgun the visitor prepared to defend himself.