I reached over and wrenched a nickeled towel-bar away from the wall opposite me. One end of this I deliberately jabbed into the white-leaded wood between the frame and the jam of the second door. I was about to pry with all my force, when the sound of yet another voice came from the room before me. It was a disturbed yet sleepy voice, muffled, apparently, by a second portière hung on the outside of the second door. "Is that you, Simmonds?" demanded this voice. I continued to pry, for I felt like a rat in a corner, in that bald little bathroom, and I wanted space about me, even though that meant fresh danger. The mysteries were now more than I could decipher. I no longer gave thought to them. The first thing I wanted was liberation, escape. But my rod-end bent under the pressure to which I subjected it, and I had to reverse it and try for a fresh hold. I could hear, as I did so, the sudden sound of feet crossing a floor, the click of a light-switch, and then the rattle of the portière-rings on the rod above the door at which I stood. "Who locked this door?" demanded the startled voice on the other side. For answer, I threw my weight on the rod and forced the lock. I still kept the metal rod in my hand, for a possible weapon, as I half-stumbled out into the larger room. Before me I saw a man in pajamas. He was blond and big and his hair was rumpled--that was all I knew about him, beyond the fact that his pajamas were a rather foolish tint of baby-blue. We stood there, for a second or two, staring at each other. We were each plainly afraid of the other, just as we were each a little reassured, I imagine, at the sight of the other. "For the love of God," he gasped, wide-eyed, "who are you?" "Quick," I cried, "is this your house?" "Of course it's my house," he cried back, retreating as I advanced. He suddenly side-stepped and planted his thumb on a call-bell. "Good!" I said. "Get your servants here quick. We'll need them!" "Who'll need them? What's wrong? What's up?" "I've got two burglars locked in that room." "Burglars?" "Yes, and they'll have a nice haul if they get away. Have you got a revolver?" "Yes," he answered, jerking open a drawer. I saw that his firearm was an automatic. "Where's the telephone?" I demanded, crossing the room to the door that opened into the hall. "On the floor below," he answered. He pulled on a brown blanket dressing-gown, drawing the girdle tight at the waist. "You can get to it quicker than I can," I told him. "Give me the gun, and throw on the lights as you go down. Then get the police here as soon as you can." "What'll you do?" he demanded. "I'll guard the door," I answered as I all but pushed him into that hallway. Then I swung-to the door after me, and locked it from the outside. "Quick, the gun," I said. There was no fear on his face now, yet it was natural enough that he should hesitate. "What are you? An officer?" There was no time for an explanation.