“Whatever is it?” sighed Mr Seymour. “Put on the light, yes. Really, I—— Who is it wants me? I——” Toby stumbled across the room, cannoned violently into the bed and, reaching the switch, at last flooded the room with light. As he did so he explained himself briefly: “It’s me—Nicholson.” Mr Seymour peered at him dazedly. “Nicholson? Why, yes, I see it is. But how very odd. Do you know, I _quite_ thought you’d gone away. Quite. I must have been dreaming. How very strange.” Toby approached and sat down pleasantly on the bed. “I did go away,” he confessed. “But you know how a felon always returns to the scene of his crime. As a matter of fact, I have just come in through the window.” He paused a moment as if to allow this information to sink well in. Mr Seymour took the news oddly. He just sat up in bed and looked as if he were about to weep. “What time is it?” he demanded. “Dear me, how troublesome a night! It seems only a few minutes ago that I was having a boy put to bed. Whatever is it now?” Toby leaned over him. “Were all your boys present to-night?” he inquired. “Was anybody reported missing?” The other grew visibly perplexed. “Really, I can hardly say. So much has been happening to-night. No doubt you have not yet heard——” Toby waved the point aside. “I may have done you a good turn. I hope so, anyway. One of the youngsters in your house has been bullied into getting whisky for someone amongst your seniors, and at last he’s kicked. So this evening he ran away.” “Good gracious me!” exclaimed the other, “who’s run away? Why, only this evening I have had——” “Fortunately,” said Toby, pressing on hastily, “I came across him myself and I have been able to lead him back to the fold. It may be in time for you to take this matter of the whisky in hand yourself before anything comes out about it.” Mr Seymour rose a little farther out of his bed and pointed at Toby excitedly. He was suddenly very wide awake. “You say this boy ran away? I am not surprised. This evening a boy was found in this house drunk, and he was expelled.” “Expelled?” repeated Toby, cocking one eyebrow in surprise. “By the Head, do you mean?” “Yes.” “Who was the boy?” “It was his own son,” said Mr Seymour, and drawing himself completely out of bed he began to feel for his slippers. Suddenly he looked up with a jerk. Toby was still staring at him thoughtfully. “He found his own son drunk?” “Yes.” “And nobody else?” “Apparently not,” said Mr Seymour. He stood up. “Nicholson,” he demanded, “who is this boy? And,” he added, “how on earth did you get into this house?” “His name is Carr,” said Toby. “And I came in via the window. I crawled up the wall.” Mr Seymour approached the window, looked at it incredulously, then opened the lower half and peered out. “It is a nasty drop,” he declared. Toby moved to the window and stood beside him.