“I am dreadfully sorry,” said Sacharissa.

“Isn’t there an ax in the house?”

The butler mournfully denied it.

“Then get the furnace bar.”

It was fetched; nerve-racking blows rained on the grille; puffing servants applied it as a lever, as a battering-ram, as a club.  The house rang like a boiler factory.

“I can’t stand any more of that!” shouted the young man.  “Stop it!”

Sacharissa looked about her, hands closing both ears.

“Send them away,” said the young man, wearily.  “If I’ve got to stay here I want a chance to think.”

After she had dismissed the servants Sacharissa drew up a chair and seated herself a few feet from the grille.  She could see half the car and half the man—­plainer, now that she had come nearer.

He was a young and rather attractive looking fellow, cheek tied up in his handkerchief, where the head of the hammer had knocked off the skin.

“Let me get some witch-hazel,” said Sacharissa, rising.

“I want to write a telegram first,” he said.

So she brought some blanks, passed them and a pencil down to him through the grille, and reseated herself.

VII

THE INVISIBLE WIRE

In Which the Telephone Continues Ringing

When he had finished writing he sorted out some silver, and handed it and the yellow paper to Sacharissa.

“It’s dark in here.  Would you mind reading it aloud to me to see if I’ve made it plain?” he asked.

“Certainly,” said Sacharissa; and she read: 

MRS. DELANCY COURLAND,

Tuxedo.

I’m stuck in an idiotic elevator at 1008-1/2 Fifth Avenue.  If I don’t appear by New Year’s you’ll know why.  Be careful that no reporters get hold of this.

KILLIAN VAN K. VANDERDYNK.

Sacharissa flushed deeply.  “I can’t send this,” she said.

“Why not?” demanded the young man, irritably.

“Because, Mr. Vanderdynk, my father, brother-in-law, married sister, and three younger sisters are expected at the Courlands’.  Imagine what effect such a telegram would have on them!”

“Then cross out the street and number,” he said; “just say I’m stuck in a strange elevator.”

She did so, rang, and a servant took away the telegram.

“Now,” said the heir apparent to the Prince Regency of Manhattan, “there are two things still” possible.  First, you might ring up police headquarters and ask for aid; next, request assistance from fire headquarters.”

“If I do,” she said, “wouldn’t the newspapers get hold of it?”

“You are perfectly right,” he said.

She had now drawn her chair so close to the gilded grille that, hands resting upon it, she could look down into the car where sat the scion of the Vanderdynks on a flimsy Louis XV chair.

“I can’t express to you how sorry I am,” she said.  “Is there anything I can do to—­to ameliorate your imprisonment?”