It suddenly struck him that this would never do. Roe would be watching him. Very likely the Head was peeping out from behind his curtains. He would look to them as if he were going guiltily to the scaffold. He assumed an extravagant jauntiness after that. On the gravel path he met the group of enthusiasts who had been walking behind him all the way from Rainhurst, and he stopped and curveted humorously before them, his overcoat shining like oilskin, raindrops flying like spray from his sleeves and trouser legs. “The performing sea-lion,” said he. “My next will be Sir Henry Irving.” He suddenly whipped his bowler hat from his head, dented it with one blow of his clenched fist and pulled it far down over his ears. Then he stood before them with folded arms. “Fifty faces under one hat—Napoleon!” His hands flew to the battered bowler and twisted it round with wild movements. “Charlie Chaplin!” Again he bounded about. His hat received another violent buffet. He faced them again. “A Nun!” Then he pulled it to one side and declared “Father Christmas!” Finally he made one swift gesture and struck another pose. “The Head Man of Harley,” said he. “Hard Roe.” So far as it could be, it was lifelike. The hat was perched well forward over his forehead and his mouth was drawn down into a scowl. One knee was bent a little and his hands were clasped behind imaginary coat-tails. For perhaps two seconds he held the pose. Then a thunderous roar reached him from almost immediately above his head. It was the voice of the Head, and the noise shaped itself at last into the word: “_Rouse!_” Rouse shot to his full height like a man electrocuted and looked up. That which might very well have been the head of a bloodhound was silhouetted against the lighted background of an open window. Rouse slowly punched his hat to its right shape and placed it tenderly upon his head. The window was shut with a resounding bang. He began to move along thoughtfully towards the old oak door, and long after he had passed out of sight beyond it there still stood huddled aside in the darkness his erstwhile audience in attitudes of absolute astonishment. Alone for a moment, Rouse spent a brief period of time in an attitude of reverence striving to recover his proper dignity. Then he moved solemnly forward across the small space that separated him from the oak door wherein he was to learn his sentence. He knocked respectfully. At first he could hear no answer. But at last the silence was broken and a stern voice said to him: “Come in.”