“Not aware?” he said. “Not aware, sir? Where’s Miss Botterill? Put this chair back.” He rose to his feet and stood glaring at me, still pointing his umbrella at the counter. “Then do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that if Mr. Maidstone had been present, your disgusting wearing apparel would still have been there?” I bowed my head. “I cannot say,” I replied. “But it was to call his attention to them that I had placed them on the counter.” He lowered his umbrella. “To call his attention to them? But what has Mr. Maidstone to do with your trousers?” “In this particular case,” I said, “a very great deal, since he was solely responsible for their condition.” He opened his mouth. “Mr. Maidstone?” he gasped. “Mr. Archibald Maidstone,” I said, “your show-room manager.” “But good God,” he said, “you don’t mean to tell me that he’s in the habit of borrowing your trousers?” “Unfortunately,” I replied, “that was not necessary. I was myself occupying them on the occasion in question.” “But I don’t understand,” he said. “Where’s Miss Botterill? Bring me that chair back. I want to sit down.” She brought back the chair, and just as she did so, the street door opened to admit a new-comer—none other, indeed, than the Reverend Eugene Cake, bearing the type-script of his new novel.[11] Footnote 11: _Gnashers of Teeth._ It was an important entrance. But Mr. Chrysostom still sat staring at the counter, and having greeted Mr. Cake rather perfunctorily, demanded a further inspection of the trousers. Once again therefore I placed them upon the counter, and once again Miss Botterill recoiled, the Reverend Eugene Cake recoiling also and dropping the type-script of his novel. “Now,” said Mr. Chrysostom, “you have already informed me that you were encased in these nauseating garments, and you have further asserted that Mr. Maidstone was solely responsible for their present condition. Mr. Maidstone, you tell me, is probably detained somewhere, and it is now a quarter past nine. I may be unintelligent. I may be obtuse. I may be unfit to conduct this business. But I don’t understand it, sir. I don’t understand it. Where’s Miss Botterill? Get Mr. Cake a chair.” With her hand over her face, Miss Botterill ran across the show-room and returned with a chair for Mr. Cake. Mr. Chrysostom glanced at him. “Are you comfortable, Cake?” The Reverend Eugene bowed a little stiffly. “Very well, then,” said Mr. Chrysostom. “Very well, I repeat. And now you must explain, sir. You must explain. I don’t want to pre-judge you. I never pre-judge anybody. But I don’t like it, sir. I don’t like it. And you must allow me to remind you that this is not the first time that you have obliged me to discuss your trousers.” “Sir,” I replied, “I am deeply aware of it, and none can regret it more than myself, nor the painful circumstances that you have, I think justly, now compelled me to disclose.”