“Very well, my child; and if you see anybody who seems to be at a loose end at all whilst you’re gone, ask him to come back and have a really comfortable sit-down with Henry and a nice cup of hot tea.” Terence moved away obediently, and when he had gone Rouse took one final look at the study, tossed his head and then, coming to a sudden decision, bade Henry stay there with his friend and wait; then he walked rapidly away down the corridor in search of the house porter, an individual for whose resource he had considerable admiration, partly because he could put lighted matches into his mouth and clench his teeth without putting out the light. The house porter, who had been at the school only a little over twelve months, was one of those gentlemen that are described in police court reports as “of military appearance,” which means to say that his hair was dressed in that fashion known as a cowlick, and that his moustache was waxed. On hot days, however, this wax used to melt, giving his face a somewhat mournful and untidy appearance. His name was Compton, and at the moment when Rouse burst in upon him he was sitting on a stool in his private den, his knees hunched up under his chin and his eyes fixed rigidly upon the letterpress of a paper-covered novel which he was clutching earnestly in his fists. He did not at once look up, and when eventually he sensed the presence of an intruder he seemed a trifle annoyed. Nevertheless, Rouse greeted him with a variety of graceful gestures before he eventually said his say. “Acting upon information received,” he explained, “Mr Nicholson and I have just prised open the door of the study allotted to a little boy called Hope, with a view to inspecting its desirability as a residence; and all we have found inside is the portrait of a man in a red fez picking hops.” He paused and coughed deprecatingly behind his hand as if loath to complain. Compton looked at him dazedly. Clearly he had not yet thoroughly extricated himself from that romantic world in which men live perpetually in evening dress and speak glibly of their college days. He rose and laid down his novel with a sigh. “The incident has somewhat unnerved my friend Nicholson,” said Rouse apologetically, “also the boy Hope, and I was quite unable to persuade either of them to come and consult with you. I myself thought that you, if you could, would aid the lad in his dire extremity. You might even be able to tell him where he could find something to sit on—anything would do so long as it hasn’t too many rusty nails in it.” He reached out and indicated Compton’s stool suggestively. “That, for example,” said he, “would suit excellently. We have the whole evening before us, and it would be very enjoyable indeed for him to have a good sit-down after his game of football.” Compton turned and looked first at his stool and then at Rouse. “What is it you want, sir?” he inquired somewhat uncertainly.