"Here! Look out, you fool—it's loaded!" I warned, backing away to the window.
Jenkins advanced. "What have you done with him?" he panted hoarsely. "Where is he?"
"Where's who?" I asked savagely, for I was getting devilish tired of it all. But for the publicity, I should have yelled from the window.
"Where's Mr. Lightnut?" he demanded.
"Oh, he's all right." I decided to adopt that soothing tone that I had read somewhere was the proper caper with lunatics.
"Where?" Jenkins insisted, pushing nearer.
And dashed if I knew what to answer; for, if I made a mistake, it might be serious, by Jove! Perhaps some jocular reply would be safest—might divert his attention, you know.
The open window gave me an idea.
"Why, do you know," I said pleasantly, "I just chucked him down into the street."
It sounded like a cannon cracker, that gun! The shower of splintered glass from the picture between the windows barely missed me. But I never waited a second—for this last devilish straw was too much, don't you know, and something had to be done. I leaped for the weapon as it struck the hardwood floor between us, jerked from Jenkins' hand by the unfamiliar upward kick. Another instant and I was poking the muzzle into his side.