"And yours, my friend?"
"William Bates, sir."
"And if you won't think me inquisitive, Mr. Bates, may I ask what you are doing in my house at this time in the morning?"
Mr. Bates wriggled, his eyes glued on the muzzle of the revolver.
"The fact is, sir," he jerked out, "I was hungry, sir."
"Ah," said the Professor, "and I suppose you mistook The Firs for an hotel. That is the worst of modern architecture—it has no distinctive note."
With this statement Mr. Bates apparently agreed. At all events, he offered no comment on it. When he spoke again, which he did after a brief pause, his topic was of an altogether different nature.
"If you please, sir," he stammered nervously, "would you mind not pointing that thing at me, sir? It might go off."
"I have no particular wish to point it at you," replied the Professor. "The posture is both fatiguing and ridiculous. If you will take your coat off and place it on the floor, so that I can see that you are not armed, I shall be delighted to assume a less martial attitude. Be good enough to keep your hands from your pockets while you are doing it, or I shall shoot you without hesitation."
With shaking fingers Mr. Bates proceeded to disrobe, being very careful to hold his tattered garment by the extreme edge. Having shed it, he stood in his shirt-sleeves, looking about as dishevelled and miserable a housebreaker as ever cracked a crib.