Mr. Bennett began to forget his remorse in a sense of injury. He felt like a man with a good story to tell who can get nobody to listen to him. He nudged the other again, more vehemently this time. Mr. Mortimer made a noise like a gramophone when the needle slips, moved restlessly for a moment, then sat up, staring at the candle. “Rabbits! Rabbits! Rabbits!” said Mr. Mortimer, and sank back again. He had begun to rumble before he touched the pillow. “What do you mean, rabbits?” said Mr. Bennett sharply. The not unreasonable query fell on deaf ears. Mr. Mortimer was already entering a tunnel. “Much too pink!” he murmured as the pillow engulfed him. What steps Mr. Bennett would have taken at this juncture, one cannot say. Probably he would have given the thing up in despair and retired, for it is weary work forgiving a sleeping man. But, as he bent above his slumbering friend, a drop of warm grease detached itself from the candle and fell into Mr. Mortimer’s exposed ear. The sleeper wakened. “What? What? What?” he exclaimed, bounding up. “Who’s that?” “It’s me—Rufus,” said Mr. Bennett. “Henry, I’m dying!” “Drying?” “Dying!” Mr. Mortimer yawned cavernously. The mists of sleep were engulfing him again. “Eight rabbits sitting on the lawn,” he muttered. “But too pink! Much too pink!” And, as if considering he had borne his full share in the conversation and that no more could be expected of him, he snuggled down into the pillow again. Mr. Bennett’s sense of injury became more acute. For a moment he was strongly tempted to try the restorative effects of candle-grease once more, but, just as he was on the point of succumbing, a shooting pain, as if somebody had run a red-hot needle into his tongue, reminded him of his situation. A dying man cannot pass his last hours dropping candle-grease into people’s ears. After all, it was perhaps a little late, and there would be plenty of time to become reconciled to Mr. Mortimer to-morrow. His task now was to seek out Bream and bring him the glad news of his renewed engagement. He closed the door quietly, and proceeded upstairs. Bream’s bedroom, he knew, was the one just off the next landing. He turned the handle quietly, and went in. Having done this, he coughed. “Drop that pistol!” said the voice of Jane Hubbard immediately, with quiet severity. “I’ve got you covered!” Mr. Bennett had no pistol, but he dropped the candle. It would have been a nice point to say whether he was more perturbed by the discovery that he had got into the wrong room, and that room a lady’s, or by the fact that the lady whose wrong room it was had pointed what appeared to be a small cannon at him over the foot of the bed. It was not, as a matter of fact, a cannon but the elephant gun, which Miss Hubbard carried with her everywhere—a girl’s best friend. “My dear young lady!” he gasped.