Cobwebs hung from the beams of the roof like the tattered regimental colours in a church, and here and there a piece of plaster had disappeared from above the panels of the walls. The remaining breadths of plaster bore countless round marks on its surface, suggesting that some man had designed a new and curious scheme of decoration, but had failed to realise his aims. It was while Josephine and Pierce were examining these singular impressions on the wall that Guy explained their origin. “The fact is,” he said, “we played a billiard or two last night, and as the tables hadn’t been used for five or six years, there was no chalk, but Galmyn, not to be beat, hit upon the notion of rubbing the tips of our cues against the plaster of the walls. The idea worked remarkably well.” “It was worthy of the imagination, of a poet,” said Pierce, feeling the cushions of the table and laughing. “You must have had a joyous time over this table,” he added. “The cushions are clearly made of chilled steel.” “They are a bit hard, aren’t they?” said Guy. “Yes, we found that they hadn’t much spring left in them.” “Spring?” cried Mr. Galmyn. “Spring? No, there’s more that suggests winter than spring about them.” “They’ll be all right when they are played on for some time,” said Guy. “Oh, yes; in a year or two they’ll be like butter,” said Pierce encouragingly. “Your light wasn’t particularly good I should say?” He pointed to a splash of wax about the size of a crown piece on the edge of one of the pockets. “That chap is a regular Sherlock Holmes,” cried Guy. “He has found out that we played by the light of candles last night.” On the shelf of the mantelpiece stood a pair of silver candelabra with remnants of candle still in the sockets, but a good bit out of the upright. Splashes of wax decorated the path from the billiard-table to the fireplace, suggesting the white stones alongside a carriage drive. “Only one cue had a tip,” said Guy. “That made playing a bit tiresome: you see we had to pass it on for every stroke. We had best go on to the drawing-room. The ceiling is said to have been painted by Angelica Kauffmann--whoever she was.” “I never saw a painted ceiling that poor Miss Angel hadn’t something to say to,” whispered Josephine as the party trooped through the open door. It was as Lady Severn had said: the drawing-room stood sadly in need of dusting.