He repeated the phrase as we went upstairs.

"'Caught in the act.' Yes, they are ingenious creatures. Let me
introduce myself. My name is Julian Eversleigh. Sit down, won't you?
Excuse me for a moment."

He crossed to a writing-table.

Julian Eversleigh inhabited a single room of irregular shape. It was
small, and situated immediately under the roof. One side had a window
which overlooked Rupert Court. The view from it was, however,
restricted, because the window was inset, so that the walls projecting
on either side prevented one seeing more than a yard or two of the
court.

The room contained a hammock, a large tin bath, propped up against the
wall, a big wardrobe, a couple of bookcases, a deal writing-table--at
which the proprietor was now sitting with a pen in his mouth, gazing at
the ceiling--and a divan-like formation of rugs and cube sugar boxes.

The owner of this mixed lot of furniture wore a very faded blue serge
suit, the trousers baggy at the knees and the coat threadbare at the
elbows. He had the odd expression which green eyes combined with red
hair give a man.

"Caught in the act," he was murmuring. "Caught in the act."

The phrase seemed to fascinate him.

I had established myself on the divan, and was puffing at a cigar,