I knew that I ought to telephone to somebody or something, but dashed if I had any idea who or where. Oddly enough, not a soul seemed to have been roused by the pistol shot, but I saw by the little clock that it was close to three—the hour in a bachelor apartment house when everybody is asleep, if they're going to sleep at all.
I decided that the best thing to do first was to get into some clothes. And with this thought I was turning away, when it occurred to me to make an effort to see if poor Jenkins seemed more rational now or had gone to sleep.
I tapped upon the door. "Are you asleep?" I asked softly.
A howl of positive terror came back.
"I'm a-keeping quiet," he cried, "but don't let me hear your voice again, or I'll jump right out of the window."
I shook my head sadly and tiptoed into my room, where I slipped hurriedly out of the pajamas and into some clothes; then back I went to the telephone. It was on my little writing-desk close to the door confining Jenkins.
I lifted the receiver with a sigh.
"Hello, central," I began, responding to the operator. "I say, will you give me 'information?'"
A loud shout suddenly sounded from behind the closed door, and there came a frantic double-pounding of fists.
"Mr. Lightnut—Mr. Lightnut!" screamed Jenkins. "Oh, Mr. Lightnut, you're back—you're alive—I can hear your voice! This is Jenkins, Mr. Lightnut; yes, sir, Jenkins. They've got me locked in!"