“Acting upon information received,” he explained, “Mr Nicholson and I have just prised open the door of the study allotted to a little boy called Hope, with a view to inspecting its desirability as a residence; and all we have found inside is the portrait of a man in a red fez picking hops.”
He paused and coughed deprecatingly behind his hand as if loath to complain. Compton looked at him dazedly. Clearly he had not yet thoroughly extricated himself from that romantic world in which men live perpetually in evening dress and speak glibly of their college days. He rose and laid down his novel with a sigh.
“The incident has somewhat unnerved my friend Nicholson,” said Rouse apologetically, “also the boy Hope, and I was quite unable to persuade either of them to come and consult with you. I myself thought that you, if you could, would aid the lad in his dire extremity. You might even be able to tell him where he could find something to sit on—anything would do so long as it hasn’t too many rusty nails in it.” He reached out and indicated Compton’s stool suggestively. “That, for example,” said he, “would suit excellently. We have the whole evening before us, and it would be very enjoyable indeed for him to have a good sit-down after his game of football.”
Compton turned and looked first at his stool and then at Rouse.
“What is it you want, sir?” he inquired somewhat uncertainly.
“It’s a study,” said Rouse. “There’s no furniture in the place at all.”
“Study?” repeated the patient fellow. “But ain’t there a table and a couple of chairs in it? Surely——” He began to fondle his chin. “Why, every study has a table and a couple of chairs.”
“I expect this one did have a long time ago,” said Rouse, “but if so they must have died in infancy.”
“They may have been stole.”
Rouse considered this point with care.