At nine o’clock that night the bell of Tab Holland’s flat rang long and noisily.
“Who the dickens is that?” he growled.
He was in his shirt-sleeves, writing for dear life and the table was strewn with proofs of his industry.
Rex Lander came out of his bedroom.
“Your boy, I expect,” he said. “I left the lower door open for him.”
Tab shook his head.
“The office is sending for the copy at eleven,” he said. “See who it is, Babe.”
Mr. Lander grumbled. He always grumbled when he was called upon for physical effort. He opened the door and Tab, hearing a loud and unfamiliar voice, joined him. On the landing without, was a bearded, swaying figure and he was talking noisily.
“What is wrong?” asked Tab.
“Everything, sir,” hiccoughed the caller, “everything is wrong. A man, a gen’leman cannot be robbed with impunity or assaulted by me-menials with—with—” He considered a moment and added: “impunity.”