“By Jove, St. Hilary,” I said savagely, “is that brute to amuse himself all night, drinking my liquors, listening to the chimes of our clock, unmolested?”
“Not unmolested,” chuckled St. Hilary softly.
“Ah, then, we stop his little game!”
“With all the pleasure in the world.”
He took off his cloak. It was very thick and dripping with moisture. He nodded at me, smiling.
“Yes, yes, you get the idea? Could a troublesome guest cry out indignantly if this fine cloak kept his head warm, do you think?”
He spread out the cloak on one outstretched arm, and tiptoed to the door again. I followed at his heels.
“But is this necessary?” I expostulated. “Why not throw him out without any ado?”
St. Hilary looked at me with contempt.
“Do you forget the fourteen pages? We must see them. The chances are they are in his pocket. We are to be burglars for the nonce, dear Hume, and this cloak is to go over his head so that he won’t be too noisy.”