With great care, he climbed through the window, groped his way through the dark to the bed, and laid both hands on the blanketed form.
“Jimmie!” he muttered, and shook the form briskly.
A stifled gurgle came from Jimmie, but no words which Owen could understand. In some alarm, the red-headed chap whirled to the window, drew the shade, and snapped on the light. What he saw startled him.
Jimmie’s trousers lay on the floor. Beside them lay his shirt, fairly torn to ribbons. The door leading into the garage was unbolted and swinging open by a couple of inches.
Jimmie, entirely swathed in a blanket, lay on the bed. He was wrapped, outside the blanket, with coil on coil of stout rope, and looked more like a mummy than anything else. The blanket covered his head and face, so that it was impossible for him to talk, and it must have been almost impossible for him to breathe. Jimmie, in his helplessness, was twisting and writhing about on the bed.
Clancy, astounded by all this, hurried to Jimmie and began removing the rope. First he freed his friend’s head, pulled back the blanket, and Jimmie began gasping like a stranded fish. While he was pumping the fresh, cool air into his lungs, Clancy removed the rest of the rope and pulled the blanket away entirely.
Fortune lay on his back, looking up at his pard with astonished eyes.
“What the deuce has been going on here?” demanded Owen.
Jimmie sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed his arms.
“Whoosh!” he answered. “Here’s a fine kittle o’ fish, I must say! A couple o’ plug-uglies was here and raisin’ Cain, pard. They thought I was you, and they was after that note.”