He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bulldogs, sank down on the sofa.

Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.

“Hello,” he said without looking around.

Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, at last, “Hastings⁠—you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to tell us about⁠—the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire⁠—”

“Yes, what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.”

“Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm.

“Don’t you think so?” demanded Clifford.