Whether it was because he relaxed every muscle and fell limply, or whether it was because of a kind fate looking after him, he sustained no injuries. Not a bone broke, and though the jar was stunning, he recovered after a few minutes, and sat up half-dazed, but rapidly becoming alert, and looking about him.
The semi-darkness of the shaft showed him the exit, and it proved to be into the laundry in the basement of the house.
The rest was easy. Listening intently for a sound of Kito, and hearing none, Fibsy deliberately walked out of the basement door, and into the street.
He did not hurry, being desirous not to attract attention in any way, and as he went through the area gate, he looked up and noted the number of the house. It was as he had surmised, a house closed for the summer during the absence of the family. The Japanese butler had been retained as caretaker, and whoever was Fibsy’s captor, gave the orders. Kito was so trustworthy and faithful, there could have been no chance of Fibsy’s escape save by some such ingenious method as he had used.
“Only,” he blamed himself, “why the dickens didn’t I think of it sooner?”
Reaching the corner, he noted the street the house was on, but the fashionable locality, in the upper West Seventies, was unfamiliar to him, and he had no idea whose house he had been living in.
Nor had he had time to find out. An investigation of a street directory might have told him, but he concluded to lose no time in communicating with Fleming Stone.
But first, he telephoned his aunt to relieve the anxiety he knew she must be feeling.
“It’s all right, Aunt Becky,” he announced, cheerily. “Don’t you worry, don’t you fret. I’m on important business, and I’ll be home when I get there. So long!”
Then he called up Fleming Stone’s office. The detective was not in, but Fibsy made it so plain to a secretary that Mr. Stone must be found at once, that the finding was accomplished, and by the time Fibsy in his taxicab reached the office, Fleming Stone was there too.