"Whom Jupiter wishes to ruin, he first drives mad," I said.
"You think I'm crazy?"
I didn't like the gleam in his eye and the tightly pressed lips. I hastily decided I was better off with him gone. These little people, I am told, can sometimes get extremely violent.
"I most certainly do," I said, "but that is none of my affair. I will tell you what that man said and then I would appreciate your popping out of my life as you so unceremoniously popped into it."
"What did he say?" He leaned forward waiting, it would seem, as if the fate of the world hung in the balance.
"Eight-thirty tonight. You know the place."
The little man studied the paper, repeating the words. Then he emitted a shriek of ecstasy. "That's it! Now the message is clear! Thank you, Professor Clarke. You have performed a duty towards society and your city." He fled down the hall. I heard the front door slam and returned to my work with a sigh of relief.
About eleven o'clock the same evening, weary in body and mind, I was preparing for bed when there came what I can only describe as a feeble but urgent rapping on my door. The strange events of the afternoon completely forgotten, I opened the door. There, in the dim light of the hall, considerably the worse for wear, stood my little visitor of the afternoon. He was bare-headed, his dark curly locks plastered to his forehead with perspiration. His bowtie was missing and his checkered suit was covered with splotches of mud and some darker substance, especially around the left arm which he gingerly supported with his right hand.
"Mr. Rumplestein!"