“Not one. Are his hands tied, you?” “As fast as your tongue, sir, I can assure you. Mr. Corby here, whom I recognize by his bashfulness, has spliced me as conscientiously as he would bud a rose. How is gardening doing, Joe?” “Get along!” said that person. “You want bedding out, you do.” “Why, Joe, I’m with you. I never felt myself in closer quarters.” Another squiggle of laughter greeted the sally. “You might graft a new pair of ears to this gentleman,” said Tuke. “He’s been lopped, it seems, for canker; and that’s a disease peculiar to roses and curs, Joe.” Brander’s face went furious. “You stinking aristocrat!” he screamed. “I’ll pipe a tune for you by and by, and you shall dance, by God!” He stamped his foot and waved with his gaunt arms. “Kick him into the parlour!” he shouted--“and let his wits fatten on the frog-skins. He’ll want them in good condition presently.” The prisoner made no resistance, and was haled rather than driven through the doorway of the room to his right--thrust and locked in. The shutters, it seemed, were closed, and the place--except for the little glow diffused by a fire smouldering on the hearth--was in darkness. Not knowing if a trap of some sort was set for him, and being indeed considerably amazed and dumbfounded for all his fine show of _sang-froid_, he would not venture to do more than cross cautiously to the neighbourhood of the chimney corner, where he set his back against the wall and awaited events with what philosophy he could muster. Little sound of voice or movement came to him from without. The rogues, their ruse accomplished, assumed all the secrecy of their profession, and to the noise of boisterous mirth succeeded some fitful suggestions of stealthy toing and froing that it was far more difficult to hear with equanimity. Fortunately his trial of suspense was a short one. He had not been in the room many minutes, when he became conscious that he was not alone. Somebody had come in, but so softly and with so sidling an action that he was hardly aware of the fact until he heard gentle fingers manipulating the bolts of the shutters. The next moment the flaps were pushed quietly open and white daylight broke into the room. He was in Darda’s museum--that he had guessed--and advancing towards him was a figure, very placid, very venerable--Mr. Fern, whom it seemed a profanation to dub Jack. The new-comer stooped a little courteous bow as he came forward. “We are badly accommodated for seats,” he said in his mild, high voice; “but here is a chair--or the remains of one, and a little steadiness of posture may make it even comfortable to you. Pray avail yourself of it.” The gentleman laughed. “If you will untie my hands,” he said. “I see no difficulty, Mr. Tuke. You will of course give me your parole not to attempt to escape.” “Am I to be a prisoner in my own lodge?”