"He couldn't possibly have got downstairs again," somebody hazarded; "so he must be upstairs here still—must be right round here somewhere."
"Didn't I tell you he was lookin' for Mr. Slack to lay in wait for him and destroy the poor man in his bed?" shrilled the caretaker.
"Watch carefully now, everybody. He might rush out of some corner at us."
"Say, my transom's halfway open!" Mr. Bob Slack exclaimed. "And, by Jove, there's a light shining through it yonder from the bedroom. He's inside—we've got him cornered, whoever he is."
Boldly Mr. Slack stepped forward and rapped hard on the door.
"Better step on out peaceably," he called, "because there's an officer here with us and we've got you trapped."
"It's me, Bob, it's me," came in a wheezy, plaintive wail from somewhere well back in the apartment.
"Who's me?" demanded Mr. Slack, likewise forgetting his grammar in the thrill of this culminating moment.
"Algy—Algernon Leary."
"Not with that voice, it isn't. But I'll know in a minute who it is!" Mr. Slack reached pocketward for his keys.