IT was a great orang-outang. Crouched as it was, gazing malignantly upon the visitor with its bead-like eyes, it stood over six feet in height. The hairy chest was enormous; the arms that almost touched the floor were as thick as an average man’s thigh. It wore, a pair of workman’s dark blue overalls, held in place by two straps that crossed the broad shoulders. “Bhag!” called Sir Gregory in a voice so soft that Michael could not believe it was the man’s own. “Come here.” The gigantic figure waddled across the room to where they stood before the fireplace. “This is a friend of mine, Bhag.” The great ape held out his hand, and for a second Michael’s was held in its velvet palm. This done, he lifted his paw to his nose and sniffed loudly, the only sound he made. “Get me some cigars,” said Penne. Immediately the ape walked to a cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and brought out a box. “Not those,” said Gregory. “The small ones.” He spoke distinctly, as if he were articulating to somebody who was deaf, and, without a moment’s hesitation, the hideous Bhag replaced the box and brought out another. “Pour me out a whisky and soda.” The ape obeyed. He did not spill a drop, and when his owner said “Enough,” replaced the stopper in the decanter and put it back. “Thank you, that will do, Bhag.” Without a sound the ape waddled back to the open panelling and disappeared, and the door closed behind him. “Why, the thing is human,” said Michael in an awe-stricken whisper. Sir Gregory Penne chuckled. “More than human,” he said. “Bhag is my shield against all trouble.” His eyes seemed to go instantly to the sword above the mantelpiece. “Where does he live?” “He’s got a little apartment of his own, and he keeps it clean. He feeds with the servants.” “Good Lord!” gasped Michael, and the other chuckled again at the surprise he had aroused. “Yes, he feeds with the servants. They’re afraid of him, but they worship him: he’s a sort of god to them, but they’re afraid of him. Do you know what would have happened if I’d said ‘This man is my enemy?’” He pointed his stubby finger at Michael’s chest. “He would have torn you limb from limb. You wouldn’t have had a chance, Mr. What’s-your-name, not a dog’s chance. And yet he can be gentle—yes, he can be gentle.” He nodded. “And cunning! He goes out almost every night, and I’ve had no complaints from the villagers. No sheep stolen, nobody frightened. He just goes out and loafs around in the woods, and doesn’t kill as much as a hen partridge.” “How long have you had him?” “Eight or nine years,” said the baronet carelessly, swallowing the whisky that the ape had poured for him. “Now let’s go out and see the actors and actresses. She’s a nice girl, eh? You’re not forgetting you’re going to bring her to dinner, are you? What is your name?” “Brixan,” said Michael. “Michael Brixan.” Sir Gregory grunted something. “I’ll remember that—Brixan. I ought to have told Bhag. He likes to know.”