Had Philip Entwistle been more inquisitive and observant he might have noticed that on the top of the pile of literary debris were two objects that showed no signs of a coating of dust. One was a bound volume entitled _The Theories of Modern Naval Warfare_--a work of Peter's that had been responsible for a price being set upon the head of that as yet unconscious-of-the-fact worthy. The other was a batch of manuscript comprising his nearly completed book _The Great Reckoning--and After._ The reappearance of his host with a tray bearing a tantalus, syphon and a couple of glasses, cut short Entwistle's casual survey. "How goes it now?" asked Barcroft. "Telephoned?" "You certainly said, 'There's the telephone,'" replied his guest, "but failed to explain to my satisfaction where 'there' is. Consequently that solemn and protracted rite has not yet been performed." "Sorry," said Peter with a laugh. "My mistake entirely. I ought to have mentioned that that convenient but much maligned instrument is in the hall. There's a great-coat hanging over it: my device to deaden the nerve-racking sound of the bell." Entwistle shuffled across the room. In spite of the fact that he was now wearing a pair of his host's capacious slippers the injured foot occasioned him more pain than while he was on his way to the house. He left the door ajar. Barcroft could hear him thumping the as yet unresponsive machine. Quite five minutes passed before his guest could "get on." "Number four four five, Barborough ... what--engaged ... no reply? Well, try again." More violent manipulation of the telephone accompanied by a flow of forcible language resulted in the desired object being attained. "That you, Vi?... Yes,.. yes,.. no, I wasn't injured ... what's that? Church Street knocked out of existence.... Not nervous? That's good. I'm speaking from Ladybird Fold, Tarleigh. Tell Jarvis to run the car over for me in the morning. Yes, about ten. Good-night." Returning to his study he found Peter at his desk. "Needn't have worried so much about my wife," he announced. "She's quite plucky over it. She even chipped me at having missed the excitement." Barcroft did not reply. He was regarding his desk with a distinctly preoccupied air. "Dash the L.L.P." he exclaimed, addressing the room in general rather than his guest. "I'll swear she's been meddling with my papers. And she left that door open. I'll let her know who rules this show." "Who's L.L.P.?" enquired Entwistle. His host laughed. "Merely the help," he replied. "Carter's her name. I call her Little Liver Pill--she reminds me of one. L.L.P, for short, you know." "Might be your friend Andrew Norton," suggested the other.