"Later on, perhaps," Boyne said encouragingly, in a tone which he would have adopted to a child. "For the present you must remain where you are, safe. And don’t make a noise, otherwise somebody may hear you," he urged. "I don’t make any noise. I’m always so careful. And I only go out on the roof at night." "The less you go out there the better," growled the insurance agent. "I run risks every time I come up to bring your food. Only the other day Mrs. Felmore was saying that Nibby seemed to have an enormous appetite. That’s why I’ve brought you up that store of tinned stuff." "I haven’t had any tea for a week." "But you’ve got your gas-ring and your kettle." "The kettle leaks." "Then why the deuce didn’t you tell me that before? I’ll bring you a new one to-day." "And some fresh milk and some eggs. I’ve tasted none for weeks." "Well, if you are in hiding you must put up with what food you can get," growled Boyne. "I do my best for you—and even now you’re not satisfied." "I want to go home." "Home? For them to know that you’re still in London? They all think you’ve escaped to Greece, and got clean away. That’s what I told them." The man so strangely disguised drew a long breath. "Ah! if only I could have got away," he murmured wistfully. "Yes, it would have saved me a lot of bother, wouldn’t it?" snarled the other. "No; be patient, and be grateful." "I am grateful, Wisden—very grateful." "You’re not! You’re a dissatisfied hound who deserves no pity or consideration. I do my best and shelter you, and all you do in return is to grumble." "Oh! but you don’t know how lonely it is up there. I sit all day alone." "And sleep your hours away! Look at me, trudging about all day long for next to nothing. True, I have freedom, but there’s no charge against me as there is against you." "No!" cried the man Lionel in his squeaky voice. "But there may be one day, remember! There may be!" "Don’t be a fool!" snapped Boyne. "Get back to your den, and lie low." "I shan’t!" "What—you defy me—eh?" "Yes. I know you—who you are!" shouted the mysterious man. "You’re _not_ Wisden. _Your voice is not his_!" "Infernal idiot! So you’ve got another attack coming on, have you! Come, get up," for he had sunk into a chair again. Pulling him up, he shook him roughly by the shoulder, saying: "Get up, and come along." "I won’t!" he cried sullenly. "I tell you I won’t go up there any more!" "Very well then, I’ll fling you out into the street now, just as you are. You’d cut a fine figure, wouldn’t you?" "I don’t care!" "All right. If you don’t care, come along and get out of my house." And he took him again by the shoulder and hustled him out of the room towards the front door. "What do you mean to do?" asked the mysterious prisoner in a frightened voice. "Do!" Boyne echoed fiercely. "Why, kick you out! I’m sick of trying to help such an unthankful blackguard." "I—I’m not unthankful," he declared. "I’ll go back."