Ruthven jumped up, pale with consternation.
“You can’t. I won’t have you disturbing my study.”
“This is rot,” said Trevor, shortly, “I’ve got to. It’s no good making it more unpleasant for me than it is.”
“But I’ve no tobacco. I swear I haven’t.”
“Then why mind us searching?” said Clowes affably.
“Come on, Ruthven,” said Trevor, “chuck us over the keys. You might as well.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t be an ass, man.”
“We have here,” observed Clowes, in his sad, solemn way, “a stout and serviceable poker.” He stooped, as he spoke, to pick it up.
“Leave that poker alone,” cried Ruthven.