Mr. Crocker, meanwhile, masked to the eyes, had crept in fearful silence to the door which Jimmy had indicated.  A good deal of the gay enthusiasm with which he had embarked on this enterprise had ebbed away from him.  Now that he had become accustomed to the novelty of finding himself once more playing a character part, his intimate respectability began to assert itself.  It was one thing to play Chicago Ed. at a Broadway theatre, but quite another to give a benefit performance like this.  As he tip-toed along the passage, the one thing that presented itself most clearly to him was the appalling outcome of this act of his, should anything go wrong.  He would have turned back, but for the thought that Jimmy was depending on him and that success would mean Jimmy’s happiness.  Stimulated by this reflection, he opened Ogden’s door inch by inch and went in.  He stole softly across the room.

He had almost reached the bed, and had just begun to wonder how on earth, now that he was there, he could open the proceedings tactfully and without alarming the boy, when he was saved the trouble of pondering further on this problem.  A light flashed out of the darkness with the suddenness of a bursting bomb, and a voice from the same general direction said “Hands up!”

When Mr. Crocker had finished blinking and had adjusted his eyes to the glare, he perceived Ogden sitting up in bed with a revolver in his hand.  The revolver was resting on his knee, and its muzzle pointed directly at Mr. Crocker’s ample stomach.

Exhaustive as had been the thought which Jimmy’s father had given to the possible developments of his enterprise, this was a contingency of which he had not dreamed.  He was entirely at a loss.

“Don’t do that!” he said huskily.  “It might go off!”

“I should worry!” replied Ogden coldly.  “I’m at the right end of it.  What are you doing here?” He looked fondly at the lethal weapon.  “I got this with cigarette-coupons, to shoot rabbits when we went to the country.  Here’s where I get a chance at something part-human.”

“Do you want to murder me?”

“Why not?”

Mr. Crocker’s make-up was trickling down his face in sticky streams.  The mask, however, prevented Ogden from seeing this peculiar phenomenon.  He was gazing interestedly at his visitor.  An idea struck him.

“Say, did you come to kidnap me?”

Mr. Crocker felt the sense of relief which he had sometimes experienced on the stage when memory had failed him during a scene and a fellow-actor had thrown him the line.  It would be exaggerating to say that he was himself again.  He could never be completely at his case with that pistol pointing at him; but he felt considerably better.  He lowered his voice an octave or so, and spoke in a husky growl.

“Aw, cheese it, kid.  Nix on the rough stuff!”

“Keep those hands up!” advised Ogden.

“Sure!  Sure!” growled Mr. Crocker.  “Can the gun-play, bo!  Say, you’ve soitanly grown since de last time we got youse!”