“Is somebody there?”

“I’m here, Stevens. I’ve hurt my ankle,” I said feebly. “Get me out, please, and hurry.”

There was a great deal of excitement after that. It seemed to me that the entire household rushed down, and I know that an excited kitchenmaid threw a cup of water over me before anyone could stop her. Reynolds kept his head, as usual. He had a chair brought, I was lifted into it, and a small procession carried and escorted me out of the basement and up the main staircase. It must have been quite a sight, for I looked up to see Tony staring down at it from the balcony, his face half covered with shaving lather.

“Good God!” he shouted. “Are you hurt, Pat?”

I gave my best imitation of a cheery smile. “I’m all right. I’ve hurt my ankle.”

“She fell down the elevator shaft, sir,” said Reynolds, panting under my weight. “She’s been there all night.”

“Down the shaft! She couldn’t!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “I certainly fell down something.”

He stood aside then, and they carried me to my room. Tony followed, and somehow I was on my bed, with my leg giving me pure hell and everything going about in circles. I could hear Tony shouting orders, to get Dr. Sterling, to get a nurse from the hospital, to bring some whisky. Then what with pain and excitement I passed completely out. I must have gone from that into exhausted sleep, for it was noon when I wakened. My leg was up on a pillow, and Amy Richards, in her uniform, was putting compresses on my ankle. Otherwise I was as I had been, on top of my bed with a blanket over me, and still in my dressing gown.

Amy grinned at me. She was a valley girl and an old friend.

“Well,” she said, “for a girl with a foot like this you certainly can sleep. I’ll bet you’d have slept through the San Francisco earthquake.”

“You’d have slept yourself if you had lain all night where I did,” I said peevishly. “How bad is that foot, Amy? I need it.”

“You won’t need it for some time,” she said in her brisk professional manner. “How about some food? You didn’t land on your stomach, did you?”

I sat up and looked at my foot. It was something to see, and I lay back and groaned. “I can’t stay in bed,” I said. “I have too much to do.”

She only laughed at me, and I felt better after I had had a bath and a sort of combination breakfast-lunch. Amy was in a state of suppressed excitement through both. I suppose she had been ordered not to talk to me about the night before, but there was plenty without that.

“Maybe you haven’t caused a fuss!” she said. “They think a lot of you, Pat. Mrs. Wainwright’s been in and out all morning, and your boy friend had the elevator people here and threatened them with jail. I suppose the girl with the hangover is his wife?”