He had impressed it upon his mind before leaving the
room earlier in the evening, for Tony had feared some such
contingency as that which had befallen.
Tony fumbled with the handle of a door, and stabbed
vainly at an elusive keyhole.
"Wait," mumbled Benito. "This is not the room. It was the
second door from the stairway. This is the third."
Tony lurched about and staggered back. Tony reasoned:
"If that was the third door the next behind me must be the
second, and on the right;" but Tony took not into consideration
that he had reversed the direction of his erratic wobbling.
He lunged across the hall--not because he wished to but
because the spirits moved him. He came in contact with a
door. "This, then, must be the second door," he soliloquized,
"and it is upon my right. Ah, Benito, this is the room!"
Benito was skeptical. He said as much; but Tony was
obdurate. Did he not know a second door when he saw one?
Was he, furthermore, not a grown man and therefore entirely
capable of distinguishing between his left hand and his right?
Yes! Tony was all of that, and more, so Tony inserted the key
in the lock--it would have turned any lock upon the second
floor--and, lo! the door swung inward upon its hinges.
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