He went down on his knees and pulled aside in the dim light a piece of carpet that had been carefully spread over the glass frame. The unwieldy form of his companion was promptly now at his side, kneeling too.

“Dare I strike a match, d’ye think?” he whispered.

“No, no, boy! You mustn’t do that. Wolf, you mustn’t, you really mustn’t!” murmured the daughter of the Headmaster of Ramsgard School.

But he disregarded her protest, and, fumbling in his pocket, produced a matchbox and struck a wax vesta.