Now, my dear Watson, here was a case of exceptional interest. In all the annals of criminal investigation I know of none that presented possibilities more bizarre, none that called more urgently for the subtlest qualities of the private detective. I rushed out of the building, letting doors slam behind me. Quickly I reached the railings, raised myself to the top, and glanced down the road in time to see Doe join the lank and sinister figure of Freedham at the corner. But alas! just over the road was Bramhall House, Fillet's own kingdom, and even at that moment I saw a bald head emerge from its central doorway. A feeling that was partly terror and partly temper manacled me to the top of the railings; and after a few tense seconds I was gazing fascinated into a little bearded face which was staring with interest up at me. It was Carpet Slippers, and he may be said to have been round a corner. "Oh, dash!" I muttered. And then, as I stared down at him, thinking it right that he, by virtue of his seniority, should open the conversation, I gradually began to feel better, for I remembered that it was War. "Hallo, Ray," said Fillet, "what may you be d-d-doing up there?" "Climbing over, sir." (Indeed, what more obvious?) "Oh, you-you are climbing over, are you?" "Yes, sir." "Oh, indeed." When I saw that he was trifling with me, I determined that he should know it was War. Defiantly I answered: "Yes, sir. Climbing over. YES, SIR. *YES, SIR*." Fillet went white, but he only sucked in his breath and said: "Oh, indeed. And d-d-do you contemplate coming down?" I borrowed a favourite word of Penny's. "Ultimately, sir." "Ah! you do, do you? Well, wh-when you 'ultimately' come down, you will go straight to my study." "Delighted, sir." The blood rushed to my face as I realised my own impudence, but I was glad that I had said it. Fillet went his way, and I came down from my railing, combating the sickening certainty that I had made a fool of myself, and determining to believe in the splendour of my attitude and to carry it through to victory. Carry on, Rupert, carry on. Onward, Christian soldiers. I sauntered over to Bramhall House and climbed the stairs to the house-master's study. Hearing Fillet grunt at my knock, I walked in to execution. "Oh, let's see, Ray, you were cl-climbing over, weren't you?" "I believe so, sir." "Oh, indeed. Then you shall write five hundred lines of Cicero. You'll play no games till they're done." Five hundred Latin lines! God! I had nerved myself for physical punishment, but for nothing so dreadful as this. This meant long days of confinement with hard, hard labour. A great mass of tears rose from somewhere and came dangerously near the surface. But I kept them down and tried to show, though there was a catch in my voice, that I was still unbroken. "Yes, sir. Anything further?"