My father, luckily, was in when I got back to Kensington. I saw him studying me carefully as I came into the library and sat down. He laid aside his pipe and waited. I was in no hurry to begin speaking.
"Discouraged, Ted?" my father at last inquired.
"No. I'm through."
"That sounds rather tragic, Ted. Just what do you mean?"
"I have been thinking this thing over. We've reached an absolutely blank wall. I can neither climb over it, tunnel under it, nor walk around it."
"Facts, please," my father interrupted. "Cut your rhetoric." I gave him a brief recapitulation of my failure, together with my reasons for believing that it was no use going on doing the same useless experiments over and over again. He listened patiently, without giving any sign of emotion.
"It doesn't make pleasant telling," I ended, "to confess one has failed."
"Have you your laboratory notebooks and diary here?"
"Yes," I admitted, "but they won't mean anything to you—they are mainly full of chemical formulae and abbreviated notes."
"Nevertheless, I wish to see them."