“Griggs!” muttered Hawkins, thoughtfully tapping his forehead.
“Yes?”
“What—what the deuce did I do with my cigar?”
“I'm sure I don't know.”
“But I had it up-stairs. We were both smoking.”
“So you did,” I said. “The last I saw of it you leaned it against that fuse thing——”
“Great Scott! That's what I did!” gasped the inventor, turning white.
“Well, what of it?”
“Why, suppose the infernal thing has burned down to the fuse!” cried Hawkins hoarsely. “Suppose it melts through the wire and sends down that top!”
“Will it start the stuff running?”