They went into Trevor's study. Clowes was occupying the window in his
usual manner.

"Hullo, O'Hara," he said, "there is an air of quiet satisfaction about
you that seems to show that you've been ragging Dexter. Have you?"

"Oh, that was only this morning at breakfast. The best rag was in
French," replied O'Hara, who then proceeded to explain in detail the
methods he had employed to embitter the existence of the hapless Gallic
exile with whom he had come in contact. It was that gentleman's custom
to sit on a certain desk while conducting the lesson. This desk chanced
to be O'Hara's. On the principle that a man may do what he likes with
his own, he had entered the room privily in the dinner-hour, and
removed the screws from his desk, with the result that for the first
half-hour of the lesson the class had been occupied in excavating M.
Gandinois from the ruins. That gentleman's first act on regaining his
equilibrium had been to send O'Hara out of the room, and O'Hara, who
had foreseen this emergency, had spent a very pleasant half-hour in the
passage with some mixed chocolates and a copy of Mr Hornung's
_Amateur Cracksman_. It was his notion of a cheerful and instructive
French lesson.

"What were you talking about when you came in?" asked Clowes. "Who's
been slanging Ireland, O'Hara?"

"The man Briggs."

"What are you going to do about it? Aren't you going to take any
steps?"