“Ay, Noll; take careful aim,” said he, as the exquisite began to back towards the door. “What a destiny, to bark the shins of the royal house of Anjou!” Noll could be seen at the head of the stairway, beyond the open door, weighing the broom to get the balance and the grip, and swinging it with careful aim at the place where he calculated would come the shins of the exquisite Ponsonby. Netherby Gomme pounced upon the retreating body of Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, and this time he got his fingers inside the exquisite’s collar. “Go--away!” gasped Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott. There was a sharp struggle as Gomme, gripping him by the throat, forced him backwards to the open doorway, nearly jerking the complaining head off the narrow shoulders, until the room swam round dazedly in the revolving addled wits of the miserable man. “I say,” he gasped--his plaintive voice in pained remonstrance as they swung round the doorpost--“this is--horribly--sudden!” He groaned. In his frenzy his gloved hand made a grab at the handle of the door, which shut upon them with a loud slam. Julia opened the office-door stealthily, and put forth an anxious head. She could hear the scuffle outside. She ran into the room in a state of nervous trepidation: “How dreadful!” she said; ran back into the office; shut herself in. A yell of victory from Noll told that the office broom had got home amongst the shins of the Plantagenets. Julia opened the door a little way again and peeped nervously into the office. She saw the door from the stairway fling open, and Gomme stroll in, adjusting his coat and smoothing down his hair with his hands; and through the open door there came the sound of fugitive anxious feet going nervously before pursuit, rushing frantically down the stairs, leaping and stumbling. Noll, with the broom poised in his hand, was leaning over the balustrade, his legs and back exquisitely thrilled, and as he flung the broom he burst into a cheer, his aim carrying away the silk hat of the fugitive exquisite below. “Ripping!” cried Noll, and dived down the stairs after the hat. Gomme halted, and listened. The distant sound of feet, rapidly descending the stairs, told of the recuperative force and staying power of the Plantagenets even in defeat. There was a loud crash of glass. Julia started and wrung her hands. A bland smile came over the face of Netherby Gomme: “We have repeatedly pointed out to the landlord,” said he, “that the large glass door at the foot of the stairs is a source of considerable danger to any person proceeding down the staircase at an accelerated pace.” Julia came out from behind the door, and ran to Gomme: “Netherby,” said she, “it made a horrible noise.” She wrung her hands, grasped his arm. “I hope to goodness you haven’t dashed that stupid man’s brains out.” Netherby put his hand on her shoulder gently: “It cannot be done, Julia,” said he. “No jury would convict on so weak a charge.” The tears sprang into Julia’s eyes: