jokes about things they're absolutely incapable of understanding."

"My dear Hawkins," I said soothingly, "you wrong the fair sex."

"Oh, I wrong 'em, eh? Well, what woman knows the first thing about
explosives?" demanded Hawkins heatedly. "Dynamite or rhexite or
meganite or carbonite or stonite or vigorite or cordite or ballistite
or thorite or maxamite----"

"Stop, Hawkins, stop!" I cried.

"Well, that's all, anyway," said the inventor. "But what woman knows
enough about them to argue the thing intelligently? And yet my wife
tells me--I, who have spent nearly half a lifetime in scientific
labor--she actually tells me to--to shut up, when I hint at having
some slight knowledge of the subject!"

"I know, Hawkins, but your scientific labors have made her--and
me--suffer in the past."

"Oh, they have, have they?" grunted Hawkins, climbing toward the top
floor. "Well, come up, Griggs."

I knew the door at which he stopped. It was that of Hawkins' workshop
or laboratory. It was on the floor with the servants, who, poor
things, probably did not know or dared not object to the risk they
ran.

"What's the peculiar humming?" I asked, pausing on the threshold.