“‘First, the inner hall,’” Betteredge wrote.  “Impossible to furnish that, sir, as it was furnished last year—­to begin with.”

“Why?”

“Because there was a stuffed buzzard, Mr. Jennings, in the hall last year.  When the family left, the buzzard was put away with the other things.  When the buzzard was put away—­he burst.”

“We will except the buzzard then.”

Betteredge took a note of the exception. “’The inner hall to be furnished again, as furnished last year.  A burst buzzard alone excepted.’  Please to go on, Mr. Jennings.”

“The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before.”

“‘The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before.’  Sorry to disappoint you, sir.  But that can’t be done either.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man who laid that carpet down is dead, Mr. Jennings—­and the like of him for reconciling together a carpet and a corner, is not to be found in all England, look where you may.”

“Very well.  We must try the next best man in England.”

Betteredge took another note; and I went on issuing my directions.

“Miss Verinder’s sitting-room to be restored exactly to what it was last year.  Also, the corridor leading from the sitting-room to the first landing.  Also, the second corridor, leading from the second landing to the best bedrooms.  Also, the bedroom occupied last June by Mr. Franklin Blake.”

Betteredge’s blunt pencil followed me conscientiously, word by word.  “Go on, sir,” he said, with sardonic gravity.  “There’s a deal of writing left in the point of this pencil yet.”

I told him that I had no more directions to give.  “Sir,” said Betteredge, “in that case, I have a point or two to put on my own behalf.”  He opened the pocket-book at a new page, and gave the inexhaustible pencil another preliminary lick.

“I wish to know,” he began, “whether I may, or may not, wash my hands——­”

“You may decidedly,” said Mr. Blake.  “I’ll ring for the waiter.”

“——­of certain responsibilities,” pursued Betteredge, impenetrably declining to see anybody in the room but himself and me.  “As to Miss Verinder’s sitting-room, to begin with.  When we took up the carpet last year, Mr. Jennings, we found a surprising quantity of pins.  Am I responsible for putting back the pins?”

“Certainly not.”

Betteredge made a note of that concession, on the spot.

“As to the first corridor next,” he resumed.  “When we moved the ornaments in that part, we moved a statue of a fat naked child—­profanely described in the catalogue of the house as ’Cupid, god of Love.’  He had two wings last year, in the fleshy part of his shoulders.  My eye being off him, for the moment, he lost one of them.  Am I responsible for Cupid’s wing?”

I made another concession, and Betteredge made another note.