Mr. Trupp, intuitive and sympathetic as few would have believed, gave him every chance and mute encouragement. At last the thing came out. "You know what my tut--tut--trouble is," said the young man, over-riding obstacles with motions of the head. "I find it hard to keep off it." He nodded to the writing-desk on which stood a soda-water syphon and a glass. "We must see what can be done," the other answered. "You're young. You've got life before you. It's worth making a fight." The young man showed himself troubled and eager as a child. "D'you think there's hup--hup--hope for me?" he asked. "Every hope," replied Mr. Trupp with the gruff cheerfulness that so often surprised his patients. "You're honest with yourself. That's the main thing. First thing we must do is to find you a job." The other stared into the fire. "I've got a job," he said at last reluctantly. "What's that?" Edward Caspar answered after a pause and much facial emotion. "I'm writing a book on the Philosophy of M--Mysticism." He wound himself up and his speech flowed more freely. "It'll take me my lifetime. Professor Zweibrucker of Leipzig is helping me. That's why I've settled here. At least," he corrected, stumbling once again, "that's one reason why. To be quiet and near the Public Library." Mr. Trupp nodded. "It's the best in the South of England bar Brighton," he said. "And it'll beat that soon." He rose to go. "Does that woman look after you properly?" he asked. The young man's colour changed; and the momentary glow of enthusiasm roused in him as he touched on his work vanished. Edward Caspar was too weak or too honest to make a good conspirator. He became self-conscious, and blinked rapidly as he stared at the fire. "What--wow--woman's that?" he asked in a flustered way. "Your landlady." The other's face wrought. His stammer possessed him. He flapped about like a wounded bird in a tumult of fear and pain. "What?" he said. "She?--She's all right." He did not show his visitor to the door. Mr. Trupp noticed it and wondered: for his host's manners were obviously perfect both by nature and tradition. In the passage was the woman who had admitted him, feigning to dust. She opened the door for him as he wound himself elaborately up in his muffler. "D'you let lodgings?" he asked. Those steel blue eyes of hers were on him challenging and armed for resistance. "He's my lodger." "Yes," said Mr. Trupp. "But have you other rooms? I see your card's up." "Sometimes." "Because my patients ask me now and then if I can recommend them lodgings." The woman was clearly resentful rather than grateful. Mr. Trupp, amused, pursued his mild persecution with the glee of the tormenting male. "Let me see. What's your name?" For a second the woman hesitated--baffled it seemed and fighting. Then she said with a note of obvious relief as of one who has overcome a difficulty. "Anne, I believe." "Thank you, Mrs. Anne, I'll remember."