“Any man,” retorted Kenny bitterly, “may have a—­a moment of lunacy.  I thought you were impartial.”

“You mean,” said Garry keenly, “that when you rapped you’d been hypnotized by the justice of your own case and felt a little reckless.”

Kenny drew himself up splendidly and glared at Garry through a cloud of smoke.

“Piffle!” said Garry.  “No stately stuff for me, Kenny, please.  It’s late and I’m tired.  I’ll referee this thing in my own way.  I repeat—­it’s not just the shotgun.  It’s everything he owns.”

“What for instance?” inquired Kenny, dangerously polite.

“His money, his clothes and his girls!” enumerated Garry brutally.  “You even pawned his fishing rods and golf clubs.”

“I sent him a fern,” said Kenny, affronted.  “Did he even water it?  No!”

“I think I paid for it,” said Brian.

“Has he ever given me the proper degree of respect.  No!  He calls me—­Kenny!”

Garry laughed aloud at the wrathful search for grievance.  It was not always easy to remember that Kenny had eloped at twenty with the young wife who had died when his son was born; and that his son was twenty-three.

“Go on,” said Kenny.  “Laugh your fool head off.  I’m merely stating facts.”

“As for his tennis racquet,” reminded Garry, and Kenny flushed.

It developed that of studio things the racquet and the shotgun had seemed the least essential.  And the need had been imperative.

“Nevertheless,” interposed Garry, “they and a number of other things you pawned were Brian’s.”

Moreover, reverting to the fishing rods and golf clubs, Kenny would like to have them both remember that it had been winter and one can redeem most anything by summer.  He’d meant to.  He honestly had.

“But you didn’t,” said Garry.

“Great God,” thundered Kenny, “you’re like a parrot.”  Fuming he searched afield for cigarettes and found them at his elbow.  A noise at the open window behind him brought him to his feet with a nervous start.

“What’s that?  What’s over there?” he demanded petulantly.

“Oh, it’s only H-B,” said Garry.  “He’s come down the fire-escape.  Mac’s likely forgotten to chain him.”

The honey-bear, kept secretly in a studio upstairs and christened “H-B” to cloak his identity—­for the club rules denied him hospitality—­came in with a jaunty air of confidence.  At the sight of the three men he turned tail and fled.  Kenny speeded his departure with a bouillon cup and felt better.

As for clothes, Kenny began with new dignity, he must remind them both that he had more than Brian, if now and again he did forget a minor essential and have to forage for it.  He added with an air of rebuke that Brian was welcome to anything he had, anything—­to borrow, to wear and to lose if he chose.

Brian received the offer with a glance of blank dismay and Garry with difficulty repressed a smile.  Kenny’s fashionable wardrobe, portentous in all truth, had an unmistakable air of originality about it at once foreign and striking.  There were times when he looked irresistibly theatric and ducal.