"That's right," said he, and hurried nimbly out of the room so that she would not hear the chattering of his teeth. Mrs. Single was enjoying the paroxysm of a luxurious, comfortable yawn when she heard a shout of alarm from the sitting-room. She sat straight up in bed.
"Mary! Oh, my goodness! I say, Melissa!"
Then came the pattering of Mr. Bingle's feet across the floor, followed by the intrusion of an excited face through the half-open door.
"Wha—what IS the matter?" she quavered.
"He—he's gone!"
"Dead?" she shrieked.
"No! Gone, I said—left the house. Out in the cold. Freezing. Wandering about in the streets—"
"In—in his night clothes?" gasped his wife. "Don't tell me he has gone into the street without—"
"Get up!" cried Mr. Bingle, making a dash for his own garments. "We must do something. Let me think—give me time. Now what is the first thing to do? Notify the police or—"
"IS HE DRESSED?" she demanded.