Jellicoe giggled in the background; the drama in the atmosphere appealed to him. His was a simple and appreciative mind. “Come on, you chaps,” cried Spiller suddenly. There was an inward rush on the enemy’s part, but Mike had been watching. He grabbed Spiller by the shoulders and ran him back against the advancing crowd. For a moment the doorway was blocked, then the weight and impetus of Mike and Spiller prevailed, the enemy gave back, and Mike, stepping into the room again, slammed the door and locked it. “A neat piece of work,” said Psmith approvingly, adjusting his tie at the looking-glass. “The preliminaries may now be considered over, the first shot has been fired. The dogs of war are now loose.” A heavy body crashed against the door. “They’ll have it down,” said Jellicoe. “We must act, Comrade Jackson! Might I trouble you just to turn that key quietly, and the handle, and then to stand by for the next attack.” There was a scrambling of feet in the passage outside, and then a repetition of the onslaught on the door. This time, however, the door, instead of resisting, swung open, and the human battering-ram staggered through into the study. Mike, turning after re-locking the door, was just in time to see Psmith, with a display of energy of which one would not have believed him capable, grip the invader scientifically by an arm and a leg. Mike jumped to help, but it was needless; the captive was already on the window-sill. As Mike arrived, Psmith dropped him on to the flower-bed below. Psmith closed the window gently and turned to Jellicoe. “Who was our guest?” he asked, dusting the knees of his trousers where they had pressed against the wall. “Robinson. I say, you _are_ a chap!” “Robinson, was it? Well, we are always glad to see Comrade Robinson, always. I wonder if anybody else is thinking of calling?” Apparently frontal attack had been abandoned. Whisperings could be heard in the corridor. Somebody hammered on the door. “Yes?” called Psmith patiently. “You’d better come out, you know; you’ll only get it hotter if you don’t.” “Leave us, Spiller; we would be alone.” A bell rang in the distance. “Tea,” said Jellicoe; “we shall have to go now.” “They won’t do anything till after tea, I shouldn’t think,” said Mike. “There’s no harm in going out.” The passage was empty when they opened the door; the call to food was evidently a thing not to be treated lightly by the enemy. In the dining-room the beleaguered garrison were the object of general attention. Everybody turned to look at them as they came in. It was plain that the study episode had been a topic of conversation. Spiller’s face was crimson, and Robinson’s coat-sleeve still bore traces of garden mould. Mike felt rather conscious of the eyes, but Psmith was in his element. His demeanour throughout the meal was that of some whimsical monarch condescending for a freak to revel with his humble subjects.