"Yes, sir. He's not in his room, nor in the apartment anywhere."
"Eh—how—what's that?" For Jenkins' hand extended an envelope.
"Perhaps you would like to read this now, sir."
It was from Billings—I knew his fist in an instant. It was very short and without heading. In fact, above his name appeared just a half-dozen penciled words, heavily underscored, and without punctuation:
Damn you send me my clothes
"His clothes?" I looked perplexedly at Jenkins.
He was looking a little pale and held his eyes fixedly to the picture molding across the room. He coughed gently.
"Yes, sir," he uttered faintly; "they're in his room, but he ain't."
"By Jove!" I remarked helplessly. And just then I remembered something that brought me wide awake in an instant.
I questioned eagerly: