“It won’t do,” he said with his usual directness to Bob, when the latter had finished explaining. “Sounds a little fishy! I’m sorry, old chap, but I shall have to have time to think it all over. And then I’ll try to decide what is best to be done. You say you were unjustly incarcerated in a private sanatorium.” Bob hadn’t explained the circumstances—who had “incarcerated” him and why. “That you were incarcerated at all is a matter of regret.” “To you?” said Bob cynically. “Of course.” Firmly, but with faint surprise. “You didn’t think I rejoiced at your misfortune, did you?” “I didn’t know. I thought it possible.” The hammer-thrower’s heavy brows drew together. “You seem to have a little misconception of my character,” he observed with a trace of formality. “You were incarcerated, apparently, _pro bono publico_. I had no hand in it. If I had been consulted, I should have hesitated some time before expressing an opinion.” “Thanks,” said Bob curtly. Such generous reserve was rather galling, coming from this quarter. “I’m afraid you don’t mean that,” replied the other. “And it’s a bad habit to say what you don’t mean. However, we are drifting from the subject. You will pardon me for not swallowing, _a capite ad calcem_, that little Münchhausen explanation of yours.” “I don’t care whether you swallow it head, neck and breeches, or not,” returned Bob. The other had taken a classical course at college, and Bob conceived he was ponderously trying to show off, just to be annoying. He was adopting a doubly irritating and classical manner of calling Bob a liar. And that young man was not accustomed to being called that—at least, of yore! Maybe he would have to stand it now. It seemed so. “You’re like a good many other people I’ve met lately,” said Bob, not without a touch of weariness as well as bitterness. “You don’t know the truth when you hear it.” The hammer-thrower drew up his heavy shoulders. “No use abusing me, old chap,” he said in even well-poised tones. “Am I at fault for your unpopularity? Indeed”—as if arguing with himself in his slow heavy fashion—“I fail to understand why you have made yourself unpopular. You seem to have proceeded with deliberate intention. However, that is irrelevant. You say there was some one in your room, or rather the room you were supposed to have vacated; but to which you have unaccountably returned—not, I imagine, by way of the front door.” Severely. “And after entering in burglarious fashion you pursued a phantom. The phantom vanished, leaving you in a compromising position. You expect people to believe that?” Shaking his head. “I should be surprised if they did,” answered Bob gloomily. “I suppose you’ll tell everybody to-morrow.” “That’s the question,” said the other seriously. “What is my duty in the matter? I don’t want to do you an irreparable injury, yet appearances certainly seem to indicate that you—” He hesitated.