that the gas-light went out just as it caught my eye. And then an
awful flash blinded me, a roar of ten thousand cannon seemed to split
my skull--and that was all.

My eyes opened in the Hawkins' drawing-room--or what remained of it.
Our family physician was diligently winding a bandage around my right
ankle. An important-looking youth in the uniform of an ambulance
surgeon was stitching up a portion of my left forearm with cheerful
nonchalance.

My brand new dress suit, I observed, had lost all semblance to an
article of clothing; they had covered me, as I lay upon the couch,
with a torn portiere.

[Illustration: "_I saw the figure of a policeman standing tiptoe
upon a satin chair_."]

The apartment was strangely dark. Here and there stood a lantern, such
as are used by the fire department. In the dim light, I saw the figure
of a policeman standing tiptoe upon a satin chair, plugging with soap
the broken gaspipe which had once supported the Hawkins' chandelier.

The ceiling was all down. The walls were bare to the lath in huge
patches. The windows had disappeared, and a chill autumn night wind
swept through the room.

Bric-a-brac there was none, although here and there, in the mass of
plaster on the floor, gleamed bits of glass and china which might once
have been parts of ornaments. Hawkinsite had evidently not been quite
as powerful as its inventor had imagined, but it had certainly contained