Archie became restless.  Long-suffering old bean though he was, he considered this a bit thick.  He got up and went out on to the landing, to see if there were any signs of the blighter.  There were none.  He began to understand now what had happened.  For some reason or other the bally artist was not coming to the studio at all that day.  Probably he had called up the hotel and left a message to this effect, and Archie had just missed it.  Another man might have waited to make certain that his message had reached its destination, but not woollen-headed Wheeler, the most casual individual in New York.

Thoroughly aggrieved, Archie turned back to the studio to dress and go away.

His progress was stayed by a solid, forbidding slab of oak.  Somehow or other, since he had left the room, the door had managed to get itself shut.

“Oh, dash it!” said Archie.

The mildness of the expletive was proof that the full horror of the situation had not immediately come home to him.  His mind in the first few moments was occupied with the problem of how the door had got that way.  He could not remember shutting it.  Probably he had done it unconsciously.  As a child, he had been taught by sedulous elders that the little gentleman always closed doors behind him, and presumably his subconscious self was still under the influence.  And then, suddenly, he realised that this infernal, officious ass of a subconscious self had deposited him right in the gumbo.  Behind that closed door, unattainable as youthful ambition, lay his gent’s heather-mixture with the green twill, and here he was, out in the world, alone, in a lemon-coloured bathing suit.

In all crises of human affairs there are two broad courses open to a man.  He can stay where he is or he can go elsewhere.  Archie, leaning on the banisters, examined these alternatives narrowly.  If he stayed where he was he would have to spend the night on this dashed landing.  If he legged it, in this kit, he would be gathered up by the constabulary before he had gone a hundred yards.  He was no pessimist, but he was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that he was up against it.

It was while he was musing with a certain tenseness on these things that the sound of footsteps came to him from below.  But almost in the first instant the hope that this might be J. B. Wheeler, the curse of the human race, died away.  Whoever was coming up the stairs was running, and J. B. Wheeler never ran upstairs.  He was not one of your lean, haggard, spiritual-looking geniuses.  He made a large income with his brush and pencil, and spent most of it in creature comforts.  This couldn’t be J. B. Wheeler.

It was not.  It was a tall, thin man whom he had never seen before.  He appeared to be in a considerable hurry.  He let himself into the studio on the floor below, and vanished without even waiting to shut the door.