"Mr. Fentolin will be glad if you will step into his room, sir," he
announced, leading the way.

Mr. Fentolin was seated in his chair, reading the Times in a corner
of his library. Shaped blocks had been placed behind and in front
of the wheels of his little vehicle, to prevent it from moving. A
shaded reading-lamp stood on the table by his side. He did not at
once look up, and Hamel glanced around with genuine admiration.
The shelves which lined the walls and the winged cases which
protruded into the room were filled with books. There was a large
oak table with beautifully carved legs, piled with all sorts of
modern reviews and magazines. A log fire was burning in the big
oaken grate. The perfume from a great bowl of lavender seemed to
mingle curiously yet pleasantly with the half musty odour of the
old leather-bound volumes. The massive chimneypiece was of black
oak, and above it were carved the arms of the House of Fentolin.
The walls were oak-panelled to the ceiling.

"Refreshed, I hope, by your bath and change, my dear visitor?" the
head of the house remarked, as he laid down his paper. "Draw a
chair up here and join me in a glass of vermouth. You need not be
afraid of it. It comes to me from the maker as a special favour."

Hamel accepted a quaintly-cut wine-glass full of the amber liquid.
Mr. Fentolin sipped his with the air of a connoisseur.

"This," he continued, "is one of our informal days. There is no
one in the house save my sister-in-law, niece, and nephew, and a
poor invalid gentleman who, I am sorry to say, is confined to his