force enough to blow about ten thousand dollars out of Hawkins' bank
account.

From the street came the hoarse murmur of a crowd. I twisted my head
and my eyes fell upon two firemen in the hallway. They were dragging
down a line of hose from somewhere up-stairs.

Across the room sat my wife and Mrs. Hawkins, disheveled, but alive
and apparently unharmed. Hawkins himself leaned wearily back upon a
divan, a huge bandage sewed about his forehead, one arm in a sling,
and a police sergeant at his side, notebook in hand.

I felt a fiendish exultation at the sight of that official; for one
fond moment I hoped that Hawkins was under arrest, that he was in for
a life sentence.

"He's conscious, doctor," said the ambulance surgeon.

"Ah, so he is," said my own medical man, as the ladies rushed to my
side. "Now, Mr. Griggs, do you feel any pain in the----"

"Oh, Griggs!" cried Hawkins, staggering toward me. "Have you come
back to life? Say, Griggs, just think of it! My workshop's blown to
smithereens! Every single note I ever made has been destroyed! Isn't
it aw----"

In joyful chorus, my wife, Mrs. Hawkins and I said:

"Thank Heaven!"