I clapped the receiver on the hook and sprang to the door, unlocking it. Jenkins almost tumbled into my arms. By Jove, for a second I hung in the wind, he acted so crazy still; at least, it seemed so just at first. The fellow threw his arm about my neck and laughed—laughed and cried, dash it—and just wringing my hands and carrying on—Oh, awful! And even when I got him into a chair, he just sat there laughing and crying like a jolly old silly, patting my hand, you know, and wiping his eyes, what time they were not devouring me.
"Has he gone, sir?" he gasped huskily. "Did he jump from the window?" But I waved all questions aside.
"After you've had some sleep," I insisted. "Then I'll tell you the whole jolly story." And I just got him to his room myself, despite his distress and protests over my attention.
"Thank you, sir, and good night," he said as I left him. And he murmured placidly, "I guess we're all right now."
But I was not so sure as to him, when I viewed the broken chair and scattered fragments of glass—ominous reminders of the scene through which I had passed. And so, though I threw the pistol on top of a bookcase, I spent the rest of the night upon the soft cushions of my big divan.
CHAPTER IV
JENKINS DECLARES FOR THE WATER WAGON
"But this savage-looking Chinaman that you saw, Jenkins—how was he dressed?" I adopted a careless tone of inquiry.
It was high noon, and I was toying with an after luncheon, or rather after breakfast, cigar.