For an instant it held the appearance of a grain sack, but there was something distinctly solid about it, too, for it dealt Hawkins a resounding whack upon his cranium before it rolled to the floor.
“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.