"We must get his clothes," I said to Jenkins. "No, wait, wait—not time! I want to get him away before the police get here. Um—dressing-robe—bathrobe—can't you get something of that sort—quick?"
Jenkins shook his head distractedly.
"Thought of that, sir—no use—nothing anywhere around here would half-way meet on Mr. Billings."
Here the professor's man interposed.
"Please hurry, sir; he's going through the professor's papers and things!" I dashed for the apartment, shouting to Jenkins to get a bundle of rugs and blankets to the car.
Billings was standing by the window looking at a glass thermometer that he had just withdrawn from his mouth.
"Um!" he grunted complacently. "Ninety-seven and a quarter—my usual healthy subnormal temperature. Pulse sixty-five—respiration, twenty-four and two-fifths—excellent, excellent! I am myself. Ha!" And he whirled triumphantly.
"Ah!" he said, advancing eagerly and rubbing his hands. "It is you! You have heard, then? Marvelous, isn't it—wholly incredible! But do you know"—here he plucked at my shirt front, took a pinch, as it were, just as he had seen the professor do—"I can not find any transmigration. The materialization appears to be wholly optical."
"Never mind," I said anxiously, for I knew he was talking about the rubies; "we don't care." I smiled brightly. "Let's go down and see the car—nice car!" And I tried to get hold of his fat side, but missed it.
"Car?" Billings looked puzzled. Then his face broke into a smile. "Carpe diem—eh, am I not right? True, true! Whither you say." He looked about on a table. "Um—my notes, now," he muttered; and he caught up a small book and a pencil.