He had come and disappeared in almost record time, but, brief though his passing had been, it had been long enough to bring consolation to Archie.  A sudden bright light had been vouchsafed to Archie, and he now saw an admirably ripe and fruity scheme for ending his troubles.  What could be simpler than to toddle down one flight of stairs and in an easy and debonair manner ask the chappie’s permission to use his telephone?  And what could be simpler, once he was at the ’phone, than to get in touch with somebody at the Cosmopolis who would send down a few trousers and what not in a kit bag.  It was a priceless solution, thought Archie, as he made his way downstairs.  Not even embarrassing, he meant to say.  This chappie, living in a place like this, wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the spectacle of a fellow trickling about the place in a bathing suit.  They would have a good laugh about the whole thing.

“I say, I hate to bother you—­dare say you’re busy and all that sort of thing—­but would you mind if I popped in for half a second and used your ’phone?”

That was the speech, the extremely gentlemanly and well-phrased speech.  Which Archie had prepared to deliver the moment the man appeared.  The reason he did not deliver it was that the man did not appear.  He knocked, but nothing stirred.

“I say!”

Archie now perceived that the door was ajar, and that on an envelope attached with a tack to one of the panels was the name “Elmer M. Moon” He pushed the door a little farther open and tried again.

“Oh, Mr. Moon!  Mr. Moon!” He waited a moment.  “Oh, Mr. Moon!  Mr. Moon!  Are you there, Mr. Moon?”

He blushed hotly.  To his sensitive ear the words had sounded exactly like the opening line of the refrain of a vaudeville song-hit.  He decided to waste no further speech on a man with such an unfortunate surname until he could see him face to face and get a chance of lowering his voice a bit.  Absolutely absurd to stand outside a chappie’s door singing song-hits in a lemon-coloured bathing suit.  He pushed the door open and walked in; and his subconscious self, always the gentleman, closed it gently behind him.

“Up!” said a low, sinister, harsh, unfriendly, and unpleasant voice.

“Eh?” said Archie, revolving sharply on his axis.

He found himself confronting the hurried gentleman who had run upstairs.  This sprinter had produced an automatic pistol, and was pointing it in a truculent manner at his head.  Archie stared at his host, and his host stared at him.

“Put your hands up,” he said.

“Oh, right-o!  Absolutely!” said Archie.  “But I mean to say—­”

The other was drinking him in with considerable astonishment.  Archie’s costume seemed to have made a powerful impression upon him.

“Who the devil are you?” he enquired.

“Me?  Oh, my name’s—­”

“Never mind your name.  What are you doing here?”