The earl pointed significantly—and interrogatively toward the sky. Hawkins started; then settled into deep reflection; finally shook his head sorrowfully and pointed downwards. “What makes you think so, Washington?” “Well, I hardly know, but really you can see, yourself, that he doesn’t seem to be pining for his last place.” “It’s well thought! Soundly deduced. We’ve done that Thing a favor. But I believe I will pump it a little, in a quiet way, and find out if we are right.” “How long is it going to take to finish him off and fetch him down to date, Colonel?” “I wish I knew, but I don’t. I am clear knocked out by this new detail—this unforeseen necessity of working a subject down gradually from his condition of ancestor to his ultimate result as posterity. But I’ll make him hump himself, anyway.” “Rossmore!” “Yes, dear. We’re in the laboratory. Come—Hawkins is here. Mind, now Hawkins—he’s a sound, living, _human being_ to all the family—_don’t_ forget that. Here she comes.” “Keep your seats, I’m not coming in. I just wanted to ask, who is it that’s painting down there?” “That? Oh, that’s a young artist; young Englishman, named Tracy; very promising—favorite pupil of Hans Christian Andersen or one of the other old masters—Andersen I’m pretty sure it is; he’s going to half-sole some of our old Italian masterpieces. Been talking to him?” “Well, only a word. I stumbled right in on him without expecting anybody was there. I tried to be polite to him; offered him a snack”—(Sellers delivered a large wink to Hawkins from behind his hand), “but he declined, and said he wasn’t hungry” (another sarcastic wink); “so I brought some apples” (doublewink), “and he ate a couple of—” “What!” and the colonel sprang some yards toward the ceiling and came down quaking with astonishment. Lady Rossmore was smitten dumb with amazement. She gazed at the sheepish relic of Cherokee Strip, then at her husband, and then at the guest again. Finally she said: “What is the matter with you, Mulberry?” He did not answer immediately. His back was turned; he was bending over his chair, feeling the seat of it. But he answered next moment, and said: “Ah, there it is; it was a tack.” The lady contemplated him doubtfully a moment, then said, pretty snappishly: “All that for a tack! Praise goodness it wasn’t a shingle nail, it would have landed you in the Milky Way. I do hate to have my nerves shook up so.” And she turned on her heel and went her way. As soon as she was safely out, the Colonel said, in a suppressed voice: “Come—we must see for ourselves. It _must_ be a mistake.” They hurried softly down and peeped in. Sellers whispered, in a sort of despair— It _is_ eating! What a grisly spectacle! Hawkins it’s horrible! Take me away—I can’t stand it. They tottered back to the laboratory. CHAPTER XX.