"Is that possible?" Anthony gasped, bouncing to his feet.
It was not only possible. It was the solid fact, for Wilkins, muttering as he fumbled at the latch, was mentioning Mr. Vining's name and bidding him be patient for an instant—and Mary, with a little scream, had made another of her projectile disappearances down the corridor—and into the room came Robert Vining!
He was far from being the same collected young man. His whole person seemed to have been towsled by some overwhelming excitement. His eyes belonged in the head of a madman, and his hands waved irresponsibly as he rushed at Anthony Fry and clutched his coat and panted:
"Fry! You'll have to help me!"
"Help you—how?"
"You know more people than I—you know people everywhere, Anthony! You'll have to help me by calling them up and having them call up their friends, you know. That—that may do some good. I—I don't know! I don't know what I'm talking about, Anthony! I feel as if I'd gone crazy!"
"You act very much that way," Anthony said quietly. "What's wrong?"
Robert Vining gaped at him and then laughed quite insanely.
"Wrong!" he shouted. "Wrong! Mary's disappeared!"
"Mary——"