The increasing firelight played on Dalrymple's face, a countenance without much expression, intolerant, if anything, but in a far weaker sense than Sylvia's assurance. George recognized him. He had seen him accompany Goodhue through the crowd the day of the first examination. Dalrymple didn't disturb himself. "The football player? How do. Damn tea, Spike. You've got whiskey and a siphon." George's hand had been ready. He was thankful he hadn't offered it. In that moment a dislike was born, not very positive; the emotion one has for an unwholesome animal. Wandel disappeared. After a moment he came in, wearing a fantastic embroidered dressing gown of the pervading dead green tone. He lighted a spirit lamp, and, while the water heated, got out a tea canister, cups, boxes of biscuits, cigarettes, bottles, and glasses. Dalrymple poured a generous drink. Wandel took a smaller one. "You," he said to George, "being a very great man, will have some tea." "I'll have some tea, anyway," George answered. The door opened. Goodhue strolled in. His eyebrows lifted when he saw George. "Do you know you're in bad company, Morton?" "I believe so," George answered. Wandel was pleased. George saw Goodhue glance a question at Dalrymple. Dalrymple merely stared. They sat about, sipping, talking of nothing in particular, and the curious room was full of an interrogation. George lost his earlier fancy of being under Wandel's inspection. It was evident to him now that Wandel was the man to do his inspecting first. Why the deuce had he asked him here? Dalrymple and Goodhue were clearly puzzled by the same question. When he had emptied his cup George rose and put on his cap. "Thanks for the cup of tea, Wandel." "Don't go," Wandel urged. He waved his hands helplessly. "But, since you're a very distinguished person, I suppose I can't keep you. Come again, any day this time. Every day." The question in Goodhue's eyes increased. Dalrymple altered his position irritably, and refilled his glass. George didn't say good-bye, waiting for the first move from him. Dalrymple, however, continued to sip, unaffected by this departure. Goodhue, on the other hand, after a moment's hesitation, followed George out. When they had reached the tower archway Goodhue paused. The broken light from an iron-framed lamp exposed the curiosity and indecision in his eyes. "Have you any idea, Morton," he asked, "what Spike's up to with you; I mean, why he's so darned hospitable all of a sudden?" George shook his head. He was quite frank. "I'm not so dull," he said, "that I haven't been wondering about that myself." Goodhue smiled, and unexpectedly held out his hand. "Good-night, see you at the field to-morrow." "Why," George asked as he released that coveted grasp, "do you call Wandel 'Spike'?" Goodhue's voice was uneasy in spite of the laugh with which he coloured it. "Maybe it's because he's so sharp." XIII