Yet David had not departed, even when Anthony had given the last twitch to his morning coat and the last dab to his thin, rather prim hair. He listened, as he entered the living-room, and then risked a quiet trip across and looked down the corridor; David's door was closed tightly and--yes, even though it caused Anthony's hair to rise and his cheek to flush angrily, David was singing a faint little snatch of song in a perfectly indubitable soprano! The little fool should have had more sense; Anthony listened, started down to halt the song and turned back as quickly, to head for Johnson Boller's room and engage that citizen in conversation, for that was the important thing just now. He turned the knob and would have entered rather breezily, but that Johnson Boller, fully groomed and ready for the day, walked out suddenly and resistlessly and looked around with: "Where's the kid?" "Er--dressing," said Anthony. "Where's breakfast?" Mr. Boller pursued. Inspiration came swiftly to Anthony. "I breakfast in here as a rule," said he, "but--just this morning, you know--I thought we might go below. It's not so quiet down there and there's more to see, Johnson, and----" Johnson Boller sprawled comfortably in a chair near the corridor and grinned. "Nix!" said he, with a shake of the head. "We'll eat right here; I'm all done with that noisy stuff, Anthony, and this is more homelike. And then, another thing," he added more seriously, "I want to cross-examine that little shaver in private, as it were. This idea of settling him in the house without knowing anything about him is downright crazy. I want to ask him about that French doll and----." He stopped. The window at the end of the corridor was open and the fresh morning breeze was blowing lightly past him. Also, he sniffed. "Who's using perfume around here?" asked Johnson Boller. "What?" "Strong--rank!" said Anthony's guest. "Don't you smell it?" "I smell nothing," Anthony said, as an expensive pungence tickled his nostrils suddenly, "but I'll see----" He started for the corridor and stopped short. David had left his room and was coming down--and still, it did not sound like David! David, in Anthony's shoes, six or seven sizes too large, should have been thumping clumsily; these footsteps were firm little pats, with the sharp rap of a heel once or twice on the polished floor beside the runner. More still, with no regard at all for caution, David, using his soprano voice, was humming the same little tune. And just as pure premonition had sent Anthony's skin to crawling, just as his scalp was prickling and his eyes narrowing angrily, David was with them.