Fibsy, though a little surprised, accepted it all, for Fleming Stone frequently sent for him in unexpected ways, and sent him on unexpected and strange errands.
The cab went quickly uptown, and turning into a cross street in the upper West Seventies, stopped before a rather fine-looking house.
“Get out,” said the Jap, briefly, and Fibsy obeyed. The house was not Mr. Stone’s, of that Fibsy was sure, but he was accustomed to obey orders, even through an emissary, and nothing had ever gone wrong by so doing.
The Japanese produced a latch-key, dismissed the cab, and the two went into the house.
“Mr. Stoan, he upstairs,” the taciturn guide vouchsafed, leading the way.
Fibsy followed, up two flights, and was ushered into a large room, in the location known as “the middle room”; that is, it was between the front and back chambers, and had no outside window, save on a small airshaft.
A little curious, but in no way alarmed, he entered, and the Jap followed him, and turned on an electric switch. By this illumination, Fibsy discovered that he was in a bedroom, a fairly well-appointed and tidily kept chamber, apparently in the abode of the well-to-do.
By this time, and perhaps more because of the expression on his companion’s face, than the situation itself, Fibsy felt a slight thrill of doubt.
“Where am I?” he said, pleasantly. “Where’s Mr. Stone?”
“No Mr. Stoan here,” and the Japanese grinned. “You fall in tlap. Hee, hee! You fall eas’ly! Well, Mr. Flibsy, you here to stay.”