“Yes. He gave Miss Kay a home when everything went smash. That’s how I come to be here. I could have stopped at Midways if I’d of liked,” she said. “The new people who took the place would have kept me on if I’d of wanted. But I said, ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going with Miss Kay,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to desert her in her mis-for-chewn,’ I said.” Sam started violently. “You don’t mean--you can’t mean--you don’t mean she lives here?” “Of course she does.” “Not actually lives here--not in this very house?” “Certainly.” “My gosh!” Sam quivered from head to foot. A stupendous idea had come to him. “My gosh!” he cried again, with bulging eyes. Then, with no more words--for it was a time not for words but for action--he bounded from the room. To leap out of the front door and clatter down the steps to the board which stood against the fence was with Sam the work of a moment. Beneath the large letters of the To Let, Furnished, he now perceived other smaller letters informing all who might be interested that applications for the tenancy of that desirable semi-detached residence, Mon Repos, should be made to Messrs. Matters & Cornelius, House Agents, of Ogilvy Street, Valley Fields, S. E. He galloped up the steps again and beat wildly upon the door. “Now what?” inquired Claire. “Where is Ogilvy Street?” “Up the road, first turning to the left.” “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” Out on the gravel, he paused, pondered and returned. “Back again?” said Claire. “Did you say left or right?” “Left.” “Thanks.” “Don’t mention it,” said Claire. This time Sam performed the descent of the steps in a single leap. But reaching the gate, he was struck by a thought. “Fond of exercise, aren’t you?” said Claire patiently. “Suddenly occurred to me,” explained Sam, “that I’d got no money.” “What do you want me to do about it?” “These house-agent people would expect a bit of money down in advance, wouldn’t they?” “Sounds possible. Are you going to take a house?” “I’m going to take Mon Repos,” said Sam. “And I must have money. Where’s Mr. Braddock?” “In bed.” “Where’s his room?” “Top floor back.” “Thanks.” “Dee-lighted,” said Claire. Her statement that the guest of the house was in bed proved accurate. Sam, entering the apartment indicated, found his old school friend lying on his back with open mouth and matted hair. He was snoring rhythmically. On a chair at his side stood a tray containing a teapot, toast and a cold poached egg of such raffish and leering aspect that Sam, moving swiftly to the dressing table, averted his eyes as he passed. The dressing table presented an altogether more pleasing picture. Heaped beside Mr. Braddock’s collar box and hair-brushes was a small mountain of notes and silver--a fascinating spectacle with the morning sunshine playing on them. With twitching fingers, Sam scooped them up; and finding pencil and paper, paused for a moment, seeking for words.