could stand it no longer. It would not be pleasant getting up and
going downstairs to the cheerless junior day-room, but it was the only
thing to do. He knew that if he once wrapped himself in the blankets
which stared at him invitingly from the opposite corner of the room,
he was lost. So he crawled out of bed, shivering, washed
unenthusiastically, and he proceeded to put on his clothes.

Downstairs it was more unpleasant than one would have believed
possible. The day-room was in its usual state of disorder. The fire
was not lit. There was a vague smell of apples. Life was very, very
grey. There seemed no brightness in it at all.

He sat down at the table and began once more the task of constructing
a handy model steam-engine, but he speedily realised, what he had
suspected before, that the instructions were the work of a dangerous
madman. What was the good of going on living when gibbering lunatics
were allowed to write for weekly papers?

About this time his gloom was deepened by the discovery that a tin
labelled mixed biscuits, which he had noticed in Brodie's locker, was
empty.

He thought he would go for a stroll. It would be beastly, of course,
but not so beastly as sitting in the junior day-room.

It is just here that the tragedy begins to deepen.

Passing out of Seymour's gate he met Brooke, of Appleby's. Brooke wore
an earnest, thoughtful expression.