"Indeed," replied my host, with the ghost of a smile, "my friends have been entertaining me. Mr. Mould has been amusing us all. Has he not, Ada?" "If I was his wife," replied Miss Weeks, with a glare which would have permanently disheartened any comedian less sure of himself than Mr. Mould, "I should die of laughing--at myself!" This dark saying was accepted by the undertaker as a compliment. "I certainly venture to claim," he observed complacently, "that we pulled our respected friend's leg pretty neatly to-night." Pettigrew sniggered. "What was the joke?" I asked, without enthusiasm. "Well, me and Mr. Pettigrew here," began the undertaker, "knowing Mr. Baxter's fondness for giving information and advice, brought him a little poser last time we came here. We asked him if he could find anything in his library about an ancient Greek party called Cinchona. He said he would look Mr. Cinchona up. This evening he had his little lecture all ready for us. Highly enjoyable, it was. Cinchona, it seems, was one of the less-known figures in Ancient Greek Mythology--wasn't that it, Pettigrew?" Pettigrew grinned, and clicked. He was an unpleasant-looking creature, with false teeth which did not fit. "In fact," continued Mould, with immense relish, "poor old Cinchona was such a little-known figure that most people--common uneducated druggists, like Mr. Pettigrew--thought Cinchona was the name of the bark they make quinine from. Haw, haw, haw!" The two humourists roared outright this time. Mr. Baxter, with the unruffled courtesy of perfect breeding, smiled again, though I could see he was much put out. Jobson, the heavy-shouldered artisan from the factory, sat gazing at him in a puzzled and rather reproachful manner. One could see that he felt his master ought to have known all about Cinchona. "An interesting coincidence," commented the old man gently. "The drug cinchona is, of course, well known scientifically, but classically, Cinchona the demi-god is hardly known at all. In fact, he is only mentioned once or twice in the whole of ancient literature. I have been dipping into my Homer"--he indicated the familiar volume in his hand--"and I find--" "May I look for myself?" asked Pettigrew suddenly; and before even Ada could spring to the old man's side he had snatched the book and opened it. Baxter put out his hand anxiously. "Let me find the passage for you, Mr. Pettigrew," he said. "I do not know whether you are familiar with ancient Greek--" "No," said Mr. Pettigrew grimly, looking up from the book, "I am not. But I _am_ familiar with modern German. This book is printed in German!" "The marginal comments are in German, of course," said the old man quickly. "The thoroughness of German research is proverbial. Give me back the book, pray!" I noticed he was breathing very shortly. Ada Weeks settled the question by wrenching the volume out of Pettigrew's hand and locking it into The Liberry.