“Well?”
“That place,” said Terence severely, “is not his study at all.”
Rouse peered at him like a man who has received a severe punch below the belt.
“You were so insistent about it that I imagined for once you knew what you were talking about. But no. Whenever you do anything which at first sight seems clever there’s always a catch in it somewhere. As a matter of fact, Henry’s study is No. 8, and it’s on the first floor. It’s the one Masham and Loates had last term, and it’s as cosy as any place in the house.”
“Here,” said Rouse, passing a hand through his hair. “Look here, what do you mean? That list said No. 18, and No. 17, which is along there, is the last number. Isn’t this the only place like a study that’s anywhere near it?”
“The list,” retorted Terence firmly, “said No. 8. It was you that told Henry it was No. 18.”
There was a silence.
At last Rouse made a passionate gesture.
“You mean to say, then,” said he, “that all my foresight and resource, all my ingenuity, all my travail, are without value of any kind? Do all my plans leave you cold? Are you suggesting that all the timber that I have scouted out should now merely be sold to defray expenses?”
He stopped and eyed the others wrathfully.