Trevor went and looked.

It was rather an interesting sight. An earthquake or a cyclone might
have made it a little more picturesque, but not much more. The general
effect was not unlike that of an American saloon, after a visit from
Mrs Carrie Nation (with hatchet). As in the case of Mill's study, the
only thing that did not seem to have suffered any great damage was the
table. Everything else looked rather off colour. The mantelpiece had
been swept as bare as a bone, and its contents littered the floor.
Trevor dived among the debris and retrieved the latest addition to his
art gallery, the photograph of this year's first fifteen. It was a
wreck. The glass was broken and the photograph itself slashed with a
knife till most of the faces were unrecognisable. He picked up another
treasure, last year's first eleven. Smashed glass again. Faces cut
about with knife as before. His collection of snapshots was torn into a
thousand fragments, though, as Mr Jerome said of the papier-mache
trout, there may only have been nine hundred. He did not count
them. His bookshelf was empty. The books had gone to swell the
contents of the floor. There was a Shakespeare with its cover off.
Pages twenty-two to thirty-one of _Vice Versa_ had parted from the
parent establishment, and were lying by themselves near the door. _The
Rogues' March_ lay just beyond them, and the look of the cover
suggested that somebody had either been biting it or jumping on it with
heavy boots.

There was other damage. Over the mantelpiece in happier days had hung a
dozen sea gulls' eggs, threaded on a string. The string was still
there, as good as new, but of the eggs nothing was to be seen, save a
fine parti-coloured powder--on the floor, like everything else in the