Fortunately, at the living-room end of the corridor, Johnson Boller devoted a good five minutes to meditation. He had finished his usual lightning morning tub and resumed his bathrobe in a more cheerful frame of mind, quite confident that David Prentiss was no longer in their midst. He had even prepared a peppery line of chaffing for the breakfast table, the same dealing with the visit of a pretty little French girl to the irreproachable apartment and the various methods by which Anthony Fry could explain the matter to the management, should he be requested to explain. Yet David was still with them and--if quiet down there meant anything--with them to stay. Anthony's trouble remained with him this morning; even now, undoubtedly, he was sitting in there and hurling opportunity again and again at David's invulnerable armor--and if the idiotic idea had taken as firm a grip as that the end might be days away, just as it had been in the case of the yeggmen. It gibed not at all with Boller's plans for his visit to Anthony. He caressed his chin and scowled for a little; later, he smiled grimly. After all, there are more ways of killing a cat than by drowning the animal in champagne--and David was a tender shoot as yet. Johnson Boller flexed his muscles and examined his smile in the mirror. It was a broad, genial expression, all warm and friendly; and without permitting one of its curves to slip from place he strode down the corridor and threw open the door of David Prentiss's chamber. Hunched up in his big bathrobe, the boy was sitting on the edge of the bed, while Anthony stood across the room with his back wisely to the light. It was entirely plain that the trouble had gone up in smoke and that the presumably angry interview had flattened out to a love feast; David had not been and, so far as concerned Anthony, would not be ejected--yet instead of protesting Johnson Boller said jovially: "Licked him into shape, eh?" "Ah--David has explained," Anthony managed. "Got the trouble all smoothed over, eh?" "Yes." Johnson Boller laughed mightily and winked at David. Further, he stepped over and slapped David's back--no mere friendly tap, but a whack that nearly sent him from the bed. "Who was the squab, kid?" he cried. "Who----" "Don't hit him like that!" Anthony gasped. "What?" "The boy----" "Tap like that won't hurt him!" Johnson Boller chuckled as David, suppressing a shriek, managed to grip the bed and regain his balance. "Who was the Gallic chicken, my lad?" "A--a friend of mine," David said weakly. "I betcher!" said Johnson Boller significantly. "I got a line on her the second I laid eyes on her, kid. Now, I want to tell you something. You're a young sport and these things look different to you now, but the long and the short of a dizzy little----" "Johnson!" Anthony broke in. "What now?"