“It's op—why, what's wrong here?” muttered the inventor, twisting the lever back and forth several times.
“Oh, good heavens, Hawkins!” I groaned. “Has your lock gone back on you, too?”
“No, it has not. Of course not,” growled the inventor, tugging at his lever with almost frantic energy. “It's stuck—a little new—that's all. Er—do you see a screw-driver on that table, Griggs?”
I handed him the tool as quickly as possible, noting at the same time that despite the cessation of the stirring “Hawkinsite” was getting greener every second.
“I'll just take it off,” panted Hawkins, digging at one of the screws. “No time to tinker with it now.”
“Why not? There's no danger.”
“Certainly there isn't. But you—you seem to be a little nervous about it, Griggs, and——”
“Hawkins,” I cried, “what are those bubbles of red gas?”
“What bubbles?” Hawkins turned as if he had been shot. “Great Scott, Griggs! There were no bubbles of red gas rising out of that stuff, were there?”
“There they go again,” I said, pointing to the vat, from which a new ebullition of scarlet vapor had just risen. “What does it mean?”