Home? A garret absolutely bare, save for the iron bedstead in the corner and the iron basin and pitcher on the floor.
West appeared at the door, winking with much mystery, and motioned Trent to enter. Braith, who was painting in bed to keep warm, looked up, laughed, and shook hands.
"Any news?"
The perfunctory question was answered as usual by: "Nothing but the cannon."
Trent sat down on the bed.
"Where on earth did you get that?" he demanded, pointing to a half-finished chicken nestling in a wash-basin.
West grinned.
"Are you millionaires, you two? Out with it."
Braith, looking a little ashamed, began, "Oh, it's one of West's exploits," but was cut short by West, who said he would tell the story himself.
"You see, before the siege, I had a letter of introduction to a 'type' here, a fat banker, German-American variety. You know the species, I see. Well, of course I forgot to present the letter, but this morning, judging it to be a favourable opportunity, I called on him.