“It feels fearfully cool,” said Dick, sitting down. “Will your nerves sustain the smell of a bit of honest baccy?” Lord Chelford moved uncomfortably in his chair. Then, reaching out his hand, he snicked open a gold box and took out a cigarette. “My pipe against your stinkers for a hundred pounds!” said Dick, with a cheery smile. “Cigarettes I can stand, but scented cigarettes----” “If you don’t like them, Dick, you can go out,” grumbled his lordship fretfully. And then in his abrupt way: “Did you see this newspaper cutting?” He pulled the paper from under the crystal weight and Dick skimmed the lines. “We are getting into the public eye, Harry,” he said, “but there is nothing about me--which is unkind.” “Don’t be stupid. How did that get into the papers?” “How does anything get into the papers?” asked Dick lazily. “Our spook is almost as useful as a press agent.” Harry snapped round on him. “Can’t you take this seriously? Don’t you see that it is worrying me to death? You know the state of my nerves--you have no sympathy, Dick, you’re just as hard as rock! Everybody seems to hate the sight of you.” Dick pulled at his pipe glumly. “That is my unfortunate character. I am afraid I am getting efficient. That is the only way I can account for my unpopularity. It keeps me awake at nights----” “Don’t fool, for heaven’s sake!” “I’m serious now,” murmured Dick, closing his eyes: “try me with a hymn!” Harry Chelford turned away with a gesture of utter weariness, fingered the manuscript at his hand, and gazed from his brother to the door. It was a gesture of dismissal and Dick rose. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough work for to-night, Harry?” he asked gently. “You look absolutely all in.” “I never felt better in my life,” said the other emphatically. Dick slewed round his head to read the printed page from which his elder brother had been copying, and saw at once that his effort was in vain; the book was written in Old German, and Dick’s linguistic abilities ended at a mastery of restaurant French. Lord Chelford put down the book with a sigh and sat back in his padded chair. “I suppose you think I’m a fool wasting my time on this”--he raised his hand toward the serried shelves--“when I could be having a very amusing time with Leslie?” Dick nodded. “Yes, I think you might be more profitably employed out of doors. Really, for a bridegroom-to-be, you’re the worst slacker I’ve ever struck.” There was a superiority in Harry Chelford’s smile. “Happily, Leslie knows she is marrying a bookworm and not an athlete,” he said, and, rising, walked over to where Dick was sitting and dropped his hand on his shoulder. “What would you say if I told you that I was halfway to discovering the real Chelford Treasure?” Dick knew exactly what he would say, but replied diplomatically: “I should say you were three parts on the way to discovering the philosopher’s stone,” he said.