Barnstable seemed bound to behave like a bee in a bottle, which goes bumping its idiotic head without reason or cessation. On Monday morning after the polo game he was ushered into the chambers of Jack and Dick, both of whom were at home. He looked more excited than on the previous day, and moved with more alacrity. The alteration was not entirely to his advantage, for Mr. Barnstable was one of those unfortunates who appear worse with every possible change of manner. "Good-morning, Mr. Fairfield," was the visitor's greeting. "Damme if I'll say good-morning to you, Mr. Neligage." Jack regarded him with languid astonishment. "Well," he said, "that relieves me of the trouble of saying it to you." Barnstable puffed and swelled with anger. "Damme, sir," he cried, "you may try to carry it off that way, but--" "Good heavens, Mr. Barnstable," interrupted Fairfield, "what in the world do you mean?" "Is it your general custom," drawled Jack, between puffs of his cigarette, "to give a Wild West show at every house you go into?" Dick flashed a smile at his chum, but shook his head. "Come, Mr. Barnstable," he said soothingly, "you can't go about making scenes in this way. Sit down, and if you've anything to say, say it quietly." Mr. Barnstable, however, was not to be beguiled with words. He had evidently been brooding over wrongs, real or fancied, until his temper had got beyond control. "Anything to say?" he repeated angrily,--"I've this to say: that he has insulted my wife. I'll sue you for libel, damme! I've a great mind to thrash you!" Jack grinned down on the truculent Barnstable from his superior height. Barnstable stood with his short legs well apart, as if he had to brace them to bear up the enormous weight of his anger; Jack, careless, laughing, and elegant, leaned his elbow on the mantle and smoked. "There, Mr. Barnstable," Fairfield said, coming to him and taking him by the arm; "you evidently don't know what you're saying. Of course there's some mistake. Mr. Neligage never insulted a lady." "But he has done it," persisted Barnstable. "He has done it, Mr. Fairfield. Have you read 'Love in a Cloud'?" "'Love in a Cloud'?" repeated Dick in manifest astonishment. "You must know the book, Dick," put in Jack wickedly. "It's that rubbishy anonymous novel that's made so much talk lately. It's about a woman whose husband's temper was incompatible." "It's about my wife!" cried Barnstable. "What right had you to put my wife in a book?" "Pardon me," Neligage asked with the utmost suavity, "but is it proper to ask if it was your temper that was incompatible?" "Shut up, Jack," said Dick hastily. "You are entirely off the track, Mr. Barnstable. Neligage didn't write 'Love in a Cloud.'" "Didn't write it?" stammered the visitor. "I give you my word he didn't." Barnstable looked about with an air of helplessness which was as funny as his anger had been. "Then who did?" he demanded.