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.

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 unfortu