I wondered about Jerry and how much he might be knowing of my present position; twice, recently, you remember, I’d had word from him. I did the drowning-man acts,—both of them; I caught at the straw that somehow he might save me, and I reviewed, if not my entire life, yet several significant epochs of it; and I got to thinking about Doris.
She was in with the worst, I was now sure; she not only had had me hit on the head, when I came to see her, but she’d worked in that scheme to gas Sencort and his guests. I kept thinking about her and the dances we’d had together at the Flamingo Feather and our dinner on the train when I’d had the best time ever in my life.
Meanwhile I was listening and I began to realize that there was a soft, regular sound separate from and nearer than those which reached me through the door. It was the zephyr of breath. Some one was in the closet with me.
“Hello,” I whispered. “Who’s here?”
A hand touched my side and I seized it,—a small, firm hand mighty like Doris’s.
“Hello; who’re you?” I asked.
“Hello, Steve,” she said. “Doris! By Christopher, Doris!”
“Anybody else in here?” I asked. That sounds stupider now than at the time; for after this, I was ready for anything.
“No,” she said.