“What⁠—what about the chicken?” groaned Fallowby.

“Shut up!” laughed Trent, and slipping his arm through West’s, walked to the stairway.

“The poor little thing,” said West, “just think, not a splinter of firewood for a week and wouldn’t tell me because she thought I needed it for my clay figure. Whew! When I heard it I smashed that smirking clay nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and be hanged!” After a moment he added timidly: “Won’t you call on your way down and say bon soir ? It’s No. 17.”

“Yes,” said Trent, and he went out softly closing the door behind.