“A friend?” repeated the other scornfully. “What’s he going to sit on, pray?” He waited a moment, then reached out and tapped Terence upon the chest. “You see in me,” he opined, “one whose ingenuity is unsurpassed throughout the length and breadth of four continents, and it is very fortunate indeed for you that your friend Rouse is such a highbrow. Whilst you have been away I have set the whole thing right. Compton and I have just this moment completed the work. What was a short time ago a kind of expanded egg-box is now a comfortably furnished apartment. True, Henry will have to crawl in on his hands and knees to avoid braining himself on the ceiling, but what of that? It merely prevents surprise visits from beaks. And the main idea is to secure comfort when once he’s in. This I have done. Henry Hope did not appeal in vain. Compton has provided him with a complete suite of furniture—to wit, half a brace of table and a brace of chairs. The walls are now placarded with photographs of people found drowned—cuttings from old _Daily Mirrors_. We have propped up the ceiling with a baulk of timber and we have kindled a fire. We have put the fellow in the red fez who was picking hops right out of his misery, and we have drained off some of the pools of water that you noticed on the floor and put pieces of sacking in their place. As soon as he likes he can move in.” He paused as if for congratulation. “There’s one thing I’d like to say,” observed his friend, “only one thing, and I think you ought to be told at once.” “Well?” “That place,” said Terence severely, “is not his study at all.” Rouse peered at him like a man who has received a severe punch below the belt. “You were so insistent about it that I imagined for once you knew what you were talking about. But no. Whenever you do anything which at first sight seems clever there’s always a catch in it somewhere. As a matter of fact, Henry’s study is No. 8, and it’s on the first floor. It’s the one Masham and Loates had last term, and it’s as cosy as any place in the house.” “Here,” said Rouse, passing a hand through his hair. “Look here, what do you mean? That list said No. 18, and No. 17, which is along there, is the last number. Isn’t this the only place like a study that’s anywhere near it?” “The list,” retorted Terence firmly, “said No. 8. It was you that told Henry it was No. 18.” There was a silence. At last Rouse made a passionate gesture. “You mean to say, then,” said he, “that all my foresight and resource, all my ingenuity, all my travail, are without value of any kind? Do all my plans leave you cold? Are you suggesting that all the timber that I have scouted out should now merely be sold to defray expenses?” He stopped and eyed the others wrathfully. “You meant well,” confessed Terence—“you always do—but if I were you I should say no more about it. Compton may be rather annoyed when he finds all his trouble was due to a howling bloomer.”