Hawkins led the way down-stairs. In the bathroom he paused to lave his much abused features; and by the time he had finished, my own features had had a chance to regain something like composure.
Once more in the library, which we had deserted some twenty minutes before, Hawkins threw himself rather limply into a chair.
“Well, well, well!” he muttered. “Now, who under the sun could have foreseen that?”
I forebore remarks.
“William ought to be in the prize-ring,” continued the inventor sadly. “But he's a bright chap. He'll keep his mouth shut. Lucky—er—nobody else was in the house, wasn't it?”
“How are you going to account to Mrs. Hawkins for those black eyes?”
“Oh—we can say that we were boxing and you hit me. That's easy.”
“She'll believe that, too, Hawkins,” I said, gazing at the battered countenance. “You look more as if you'd had a collision with an express train.”
“Oh, she'll believe it, all right,” said the inventor cheerily. “For once—just for once, Griggs—something has happened which my better half won't be on to. You'll see I'm right. There isn't a clue.”
“Well, perhaps,” I sighed.