This was laid with cork carpet of dark green hue. Falling upon it, a ring would hardly be heard: lying upon it, an emerald might well escape detection. Fulke’s eyes almost left his head. The chamber was small enough, but one’s view of the floor was obstructed. The basin got in the way: the bath could have hidden about five hundred rings. Frantically George sought an excuse for dalliance. “I—I like this room,” he said, looking up and around as though he were in a cathedral. “No accountin’ for tastes,” said the porter, folding his arms. Fulke frowned. Then he tapped the linoleum with his foot. “Does this go with the flat?” he said. “Wot?” said the porter, staring. “This linoleum.” The porter eyed Fulke with a supreme contempt. “Oh, less of it,” he said. “Ten feet o’ secon’-’and lino in a six-’undred-quid flat. An’ you ask if it goes. Why, it ain’t worth——” “I happen to know something about linoleum,” lied Fulke furiously. “Why, if I told the Stores to put a new piece down, they’d charge me about ten pounds.” “Would they, though?” said the porter. “They must ’ave got your number.” There was an unpleasant silence. At length— “I—I take it the bath works all right,” said George desperately. “It don’t leak,” said the porter, “if that’s wot you mean.” Once more George looked round, racking his brain and trying to remember that one day the porter would die. Then he turned to the basin and pushed back his cuffs. “I think I’ll wash my hands,” he announced. “Can you get me a towel?” “An’ then you’re wrong,” said the porter. “There ain’t no water.” George could have broken his neck. Instead, he turned to the window, trying to keep his head and wondering vaguely what constituted ‘justifiable homicide.’ Suddenly the idea flashed, and he swung on his heel. “Who’s that?” he said sharply, and listened. The porter started. “Ooze wot?” he said. “Somebody closed the front door.” The porter slipped out of the room and tiptoed towards the hall. Instantly George fell upon his face. . . . He had one arm beneath the bath when the porter reappeared. “Thort as much,” said the latter, “you young cunnin’ brute. An’ now I ’ave got yer—cold. You’re for it, my son. I wouldn’ give much fer your chances. ’Tempt ter commit a felony—that’s wot it is. Stolen ‘order to view’—passin’ yerself orf as Keptin Chellenger—temptin’ ter bribe . . . _an’ all fer a little green stone as don’ belong to yer_.” George extricated his arm and rose to his feet. “Don’t be a fool,” he said shortly. “When was it found?” The porter entered the bathroom and approached to Fulke’s a perfectly furious countenance. “‘Fool’?” he breathed. “‘Fool’ did joo say?” George recoiled, and the face proportionately advanced. Its eyes were blazing: its chin protruded out of all reason. “You ’as the blarsted nerve to call me a fool. You ’as——” There was not much room to duck, but Fulke did it. As the fist sang over his shoulder, he landed a vicious punch.