“Hawkinsite!”
“Don't know, Hawkins,” I said, unable to absorb any of his enthusiasm. “But let us thank goodness that it is only an idea as yet.”
“Oh, but it isn't!” cried the inventor.
“Hawkins!” I gasped, springing to my feet. “What do you mean?”
“I mean just this: Do you see that little vat in the corner?”
I stared fearfully in the direction indicated. A little vat, indeed, I saw. It stood there, half-filled with a sticky mess, through which an agitator, run by the electric motor, was revolving slowly.
“That's Hawkinsite, in the process of manufacture!” the inventor announced.
A sickly terror crept over me. I made instinctively for the door.
“Oh, come back,” said Hawkins. “You can't get out, anyway, until I undo the lock. But there's no danger whatever, my dear boy. Just sit down and I'll explain why.”
I had no choice about sitting down; a most peculiar weakness of the knees made standing for the moment impossible. I drew my chair to the diagonally opposite corner of the apartment, and sat there with my eyes glued upon the vat.