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.