"I found an ichneumon fly in the cage yesterday!" he shouted; "and this morning the eggs have either shrunk to half their size or else the eggs of another species have been secretly substituted for them and the Silver Moon eggs stolen! Has _he_ been in there?" "Who?" I asked, pretending to misunderstand. "_He!_" demanded Quint fiercely. "If he has I'll kill him some day." _He_ meant his one-time friend, Dr. Boomly. Alas! "For heaven's sake, why are you two perpetually squabbling?" I asked wearily. "You used to be inseparable friends. Why can't you make up?" "Because I've come to know him. That's why! I have unmasked this--this Borgia--this Machiavelli--this monster of duplicity! Matters are approaching a point where something has got to be done short of murder. I've stood all his envy and jealousy and cheap imputations and hints and contemptible innuendoes that I'm going to--" He stopped short, glaring at the doorway, which had suddenly been darkened by the vast bulk of Professor Boomly--a figure largely abdominal but majestic--like the massive butt end of an elephant. For the rest, he had a rather insignificant and peevish face and a melancholy mustache that usually looked damp. "Mr. Smith," he said to me, in his thin, high, sarcastic voice--a voice incongruously at variance with his bulk--"has anybody had the infernal impudence to enter my room and nose about my desk?" "Yes, _I_ have!" replied Quint excitedly. "I've been in your room. What of it? What about it?" Boomly permitted his heavy-lidded eyes to rest on Quint for a moment, then, turning to me: "I want a patent lock put on my door. Will you speak to Professor Farrago?" "I want one put on mine, too!" cried Quint. "I want a lock put on my door which will keep envious, dull-minded, mentally broken-down, impertinent, and fat people out of my office!" Boomly flushed heavily: "Fat?" he repeated, glaring at Quint. "Did you say 'fat?'" "Yes, fat--intellectually and corporeally fat! I want that kind of individual kept out. I don't trust them. I'm afraid of them. Their minds are atrophied. They are unmoral, possibly even criminal! I don't want them in my room snooping about to see what I have and what I'm doing. I don't want them to sneak in, eaten up with jealousy and envy, and try to damage the eggs of the Silver Moon butterfly because the honour and glory of hatching them would probably procure for me the Carnegie Educational Medal--" "Why, you little, dried-up, protoplasmic atom!" burst out Boomly, his face suffused with passion, "Are you insinuating that I have any designs on your batch of eggs?" "It's my belief," shouted Quint, "that you want that medal yourself, and that you put an ichneumon fly in my breeding-cage in hopes it would sting the eggs of the Silver Moon."