"Stop!" screamed Bruce, "don't open that door! It's full, I tell you."
Moore paused. "Besides," went on Bruce, "smoke won't touch 'em."

"Oh, that's all right," said Moore, coolly and with admirable quickness,
"wood smoke, you know--they can't stand that."

This was apparently a new idea in demonology for Bruce, for he sank
back, while Moore lighted the fire and put on the tea-kettle. He looked
round for the tea-caddy.

"Up there," said Bruce, forgetting for the moment his devils, and
pointing to a quaint, old-fashioned tea-caddy upon the shelf.

Moore took it down, turned it in his hands and looked at Bruce.

"Old country, eh?"

"My mother's," said Bruce, soberly.

"I could have sworn it was my aunt's in Balleymena," said Moore. "My
aunt lived in a little stone cottage with roses all over the front of
it." And on he went into an enthusiastic description of his early home.
His voice was full of music, soft and soothing, and poor Bruce sank back
and listened, the glitter fading from his eyes.

The Duke and I looked at each other.

"Not too bad, eh?" said The Duke, after a few moments' silence.