* * * * * “It’s no good you seein’ over,” said the porter at Sloane Street. “The flat’s took.” “I see,” said George thoughtfully. “I see. It—it wasn’t took—taken on Saturday.” “Oo said it was?” said the porter, who was of the new school. George felt for a note. “Look here,” he said. “I want to see over this flat. I don’t care whether it’s taken or whether it isn’t. I think it’ll just suit me—provided the floors are good.” “They aren’t,” said the porter. “They’re rotten.” George swallowed. “Well, you let me see for myself. If you’re busy, you needn’t come. You won’t lose by it, you know,” and with that he fingered a note. The porter leaned against the wall. “Now, wot are you gettin’ at?” he demanded. “Nothing,” said George indignantly. “I just want to see that flat. From what—what I’ve heard, it’ll suit me down to the ground.” “But I tell you it’s took.” “That doesn’t matter,” said George. “If it suits me I’ll square the other fellow somehow.” The porter looked George up and down. As if without thinking, George reinforced the note. “Yes, that’s all right,” said the porter. “I see the two ’alf-quids. But I’m goin’ to get into trouble over this show. Once a flat’s took, it’s took. I ain’t got no business to let you inside.” “No one need know,” said George thoughtlessly. “Yes, they need,” said the porter. “Wot if you wants to ’ave it? The firs’ thing the agent’ll say is, ‘’Ow did you get inside?’” George began to hate the porter very much. “That’s easy enough,” he said. “I shall say I saw it on Saturday afternoon.” There was a silence. “Let’s ’ave a look at that ‘order,’” said the porter suddenly. For the ninth time that day an ‘order to view’ passed. “Are you Keptin Chellenger?” “That’s right,” said George boldly. The porter folded the ‘order’ and put it away. “Right-oh,” he said shortly. They passed to the second floor. . . . “This is the ’all,” said the porter supererogatively. “I see,” said George, raking the floor with his eyes. “It’s—it’s not very light, is it?” “Depen’s wot you want to see,” was the dark reply. George began to wish that he had given Sloane Street a miss. That the porter’s suspicions were aroused was manifest. He stuck to Fulke as a policeman sticks to his prey. Thus embarrassed, the latter’s endeavours to behave like a prospective tenant lost much of the life which they had begun to acquire, while any proper prosecution of his search was out of the question. The tour of the gaunt rooms became a hideous business—costly, futile, critical. What he should do in the actual event of discovery, Fulke tried not to consider. He supposed vaguely that there would be a free fight. All the time an inexplicable feeling that he was what children call ‘warm’ pricked the unhappy youth into the cannon’s mouth. . . . Presently they came to the bathroom.