desk desperately driving his pen across the paper.

Forbes's room in Fellows' Quad was one of those that had housed
Queen Henrietta Maria in 1643, and though Forbes's own tastes
were nondescript the chamber still had something of an air. The
dark wood panelling might well have done honour to a royal
lodger, and a motion-picture producer would have coveted it as a
background for Mary Pickford. It was unspoiled by pictures: two
or three political maps of Europe, sketchily drawn with coloured
crayons, were pinned up here and there. The room was a typical
Oxford apartment: dark, a little faded, but redeemed by the grate
of glowing coals. Behind the chimney two recessed seats looked
out over the college gardens; long red curtains were drawn to
shut out the winter draughts. It was the true English January--
driving squalls of rain, dampness, and devastating chill. The
east wind brought the booming toll from Magdalen tower very
distinctly to the ear, closely followed by the tinny chime in
Fellows' Quad. It was half past seven.

Forbes laid down his pen, looked quizzically at the last
illegible lines slanting up the paper, and realized that he was
hungry. His untasted tea and anchovy toast still stood in the
fender where the scout had put them three hours before.

He switched on the electric light over the dining table in the
centre of the room, and, dropping on the sofa before the fire,
prodded the huge lumps of soft coal into a blaze. The triangular
slices of anchovy toast were cold but still very good, and he
devoured them with appetite. He lit a cigarette with a sigh of
content, and reflected that he had not crossed his name off hall.