Oleron, watching what went on in the glass of his grandmother’s portrait, continued to play his part.  He felt for his dangling watch and began slowly to wind it up.  Then, for a moment ceasing to watch, he began to empty his trousers pockets and to place methodically in a little row on the mantelpiece the pennies and halfpennies he took from them.  The sweeping, minutely electric noise filled the whole bedroom, and had Oleron altered his point of observation he could have brought the dim gleam of the moving comb so into position that it would almost have outlined his grandmother’s head.

Any other head of which it might have been following the outline was invisible.

Oleron finished the emptying of his pockets; then, under cover of another simulated yawn, not so much summoning his resolution as overmastered by an exhorbitant curiosity, he swung suddenly round.  That which was being combed was still not to be seen, but the comb did not stop.  It had altered its angle a little, and had moved a little to the left.  It was passing, in fairly regular sweeps, from a point rather more than five feet from the ground, in a direction roughly vertical, to another point a few inches below the level of the chest of drawers.

Oleron continued to act to admiration.  He walked to his little washstand in the corner, poured out water, and began to wash his hands.  He removed his waistcoat, and continued his preparations for bed.  The combing did not cease, and he stood for a moment in thought.  Again his eyes twinkled.  The next was very cunning—­

“Hm!... I think I’ll read for a quarter of an hour,” he said aloud....

He passed out of the room.

He was away a couple of minutes; when he returned again the room was suddenly quiet.  He glanced at the chest of drawers; the comb lay still, between the collar he had removed and a pair of gloves.  Without hesitation Oleron put out his hand and picked it up.  It was an ordinary eighteenpenny comb, taken from a card in a chemist’s shop, of a substance of a definite specific gravity, and no more capable of rebellion against the Laws by which it existed than are the worlds that keep their orbits through the void.  Oleron put it down again; then he glanced at the bundle of papers he held in his hand.  What he had gone to fetch had been the fifteen chapters of the original Romilly.

“Hm!” he muttered as he threw the manuscript into a chair....  “As I thought....  She’s just blindly, ragingly, murderously jealous.”

* * * * *

On the night after that, and on the following night, and for many nights and days, so many that he began to be uncertain about the count of them, Oleron, courting, cajoling, neglecting, threatening, beseeching, eaten out with unappeased curiosity and regardless that his life was becoming one consuming passion and desire, continued his search for the unknown co-numerator of his abode.