"Hank, you never had a day's mechanical training in your life. I know that. So tell me—how on earth could you know how to make this machine?"
Cleaver blushed.
"Why, it just come sort o' natcheral, Jim. 'Peared to me as if they was oney one way to make it, so—O golly!"
A stricken look swept suddenly over his face, and I spun to discover the reason. The Reason was five-foot-two of loveliness standing in the doorway of our apartment. Breath-taking but outraged loveliness, answering to the name of Miss Helen MacDowell.
Her dark eyes were like thunder-clouds, and her foot tapped the carpet angrily.
"Well!" she said. "Well, at last I find you!"
It was I who had to hold Hank Cleaver now. He was trying desperately to wriggle out of my grasp. I believe he had some idea of trying to crawl under the carpet. Finally he surrendered, turned to face his fiancée.
"H-hullo, honey!" he said.
"Don't 'honey' me!" snapped Helen. "What were you two talking about just now?"