I could not see the shadowed alcove
in which the bed was placed, and so I stood there hesitating, hating
awfully to risk the possibility of disturbing him, don't you know. And
just then my eyes, ranging sleepily across the room toward the private
hall, were startled by the apparition of an open doorway.

Startled, all right! And yet, by Jove, I was in such a jolly fog, I just
stood there, nodding and batting at it for a full minute before I could
take it in.

"What I call devilish queer," I decided. I walked over and stuck my head
out into the dark hall.

"Billings! Jenkins!" I whispered.

By Jove, not a word! Everything as silent as the tomb!

I didn't like it a bit--so mysterious, you know. Besides, dash it, the
thing was getting me all waked up! I just knew if once I got excited and
thoroughly awake, it would take me nearly ten minutes to get to sleep
again. And, by Jove, just then the excitement came, for I got hold of
the fact after I had stared at it a while, that the door of my apartment
opening into the outer corridor was standing ajar. Why, dash it, it was
not only standing, it was moving. Then suddenly the broad streak of
light from the corridor widened under the impulse of a freshening
breeze, and the door swung open with a bang.

And then I heard my name spoken.

By Jove, I had been standing there with my mouth open, bobbing my head
like a silly dodo; but, give you my word, I was suddenly wide awake as a
jolly owl wagon!

Away down the corridor, by the mail chute, a man was standing, reading a
framed placard. Nothing particularly remarkable in this, but as the door
banged he turned his head sharply and ejaculated:

"Dammit! Now, that will wake Lightnut!"

I was surprised, because I couldn't recall ever having seen him before;
yet, standing as he did under the light, I had opportunity for a
devilish good view.

He was a heavy set old party, rather baldish, with snowy mutton chops
and a beefy complexion that was jolly well tanned below the hatband
line, you know. The kind of old boy you size up as one of the prime
feeder sort and fond of looking on the wine when it is Oporto red. Had
something of the cut of the retired India colonels one sees about the
Service clubs in London--straight as a lamp post still, but out of
training and in devilish need of tapping--that sort of duck, you know!

What a respectable-looking old party might be up to, wandering around a
bachelor apartment building at th