H. Logan pawed his plump jowls speculatively. "You might inform him that my daughter is most disturbed about his apparent disinclination to seek her company."
"H-how's that again?" I asked. MacDowell frowned at me disapprovingly.
"The custom," he hrrumphed, "is commonly known as—er—dating."
"You mean she wants to fling woo," I said, "and old Hank ain't been parking on the divan lately? Now I know he's off his button. A gal like Helen, and with the marriage date already set—all right, Prexy. I'll tell him."
So I guess those two chance meetings served as eye-openers, because when I went home that evening, I came to the realization that Hank Cleaver had turned our tiny flat into a super-scientific workshop. There were odds and ends of things all over the living room; when I entered I heard a humming in Hank's bedroom, a curious, whining wail that stopped just as I entered, gave way to the tapping of a hammer on metal.
"Hank!" I yelled.
No answer. The lamps dimmed for a moment then rose again as the humming sound drowned out my call.
"Hank!" I cried again.
Still no answer. So I walked over to his door, and banged. "Hey! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"