"Not one. That's the sinister part of it. That's what makes me so sure the thing was an organized outbreak and all part of this Class War you hear about. Chas. Bywater, in spite of the fact that his material was blue round the edges, goes like a breeze, and gets off without a single turnip, whereas Ronnie and I ... well," said Hugo, a hideous grimness in his voice, "this has settled one thing. I've performed for the last time for Rudge-in-the-Vale. Next year when they may come to me, and plead with me to help out with the programme, I shall reply, 'Not after what has occurred!' Well, thanks for the drink. I'll be buzzing along." Hugo rose and wandered somnambulistically to the table. "What are you doing?" "Working." "Working?" "Yes, working." "What at?" "Accounts. Stop fiddling with those papers, curse you." "What's this thing?" "That," said John, removing it from his listless grasp and putting it out of reach in a drawer, "is the diagram of a thing called an Alpha Separator. It works by centrifugal force and can separate two thousand seven hundred and twenty-four quarts of milk in an hour. It has also a Holstein butter-churner attachment, and a boiler which at seventy degrees centigrade destroys the obligatory and optional bacteria." "Yes? "Positively." "Oh? Well, damn it, anyway," said Hugo. IV Hugo crossed the strip of gravel which lay between the stable yard and the house, and, having found in his trouser pocket the key of the back door, proceeded to let himself in. His objective was the dining room. He was feeling so much better after the refreshment of which he had just partaken that reason told him he had found the right treatment for his complaint. A few more swift ones from the cellarette in the dining room and the depression caused by the despicable behaviour of the Budd Street Bolshevists might possibly leave him altogether. The passage leading to his goal was in darkness, but he moved steadily forward. Occasionally a chair would dart from its place to crack him over the shin, but he was not to be kept from the cellarette by trifles like that. Soon his fingers were on the handle of the door, and he flung it open and entered. And it was at this moment that there came to his ears an odd noise. It was not the noise itself that was odd. Feet scraping on gravel always make that unmistakable sound. What impressed itself on Hugo as curious was the fact that on the gravel outside the dining-room window, feet at this hour should be scraping at all. His hand had been outstretched to switch on the light, but now he paused. He waited, listening. And presently in the oblong of the middle of the three large windows he saw dimly against the lesser darkness outside a human body. It was insinuating itself through the opening and what Hugo felt about it was that he liked its dashed nerve.