of diagonally set narrow boards, was uncarpeted and unpolished.  The ceiling was adorned with frescoes, which at once excited Sir Charles’s interest, and he noted with indignation that a large portion of the painting at the northern end had been destroyed and some glass roofing inserted.  In another place bolts had been driven in to support the ropes of a trapeze and a few other pieces of gymnastic apparatus.  The walls were whitewashed, and at about four feet from the ground a dark band appeared, produced by pencil memoranda and little sketches scribbled on the whitewash.  One end of the apartment was unfurnished, except by the gymnastic apparatus, a photographer’s camera, a ladder in the corner, and a common deal table with oil cans and paint pots upon it.  At the other end a comparatively luxurious show was made by a large bookcase, an elaborate combination of bureau and writing desk, a rack with a rifle, a set of foils, and an umbrella in it, several folio albums on a table, some comfortable chairs and sofas, and a thick carpet under foot.  Close by, and seeming much out of place, was a carpenter’s bench with the usual implements and a number of boards of various thicknesses.

“This is a sort of comfort beyond the reach of any but a rich man,” said Trefusis, turning and surprising his visitors in the act of exchanging glances of astonishment at his taste.  “I keep a drawing-room of the usual kind for receiving strangers with whom it is necessary to be conventional, but I never enter it except on such occasions.  What do you think of this for a study?”

“On my soul, Trefusis, I think you are mad,” said Sir Charles.  “The place looks as if it had stood a siege.  How did you manage to break the statues and chip the walls so outrageously?”

Trefusis took a newspaper from the table and said, “Listen to this:  ’In spite of the unfavorable nature of the weather, the sport of the Emperor and his guests in Styria has been successful.  In three days 52 chamois and 79 stags and deer fell to 19 single-barrelled rifles, the Emperor allowing no more on this occasion.’

“I share the Emperor’s delight in shooting, but I am no butcher, and do not need the royal relish of blood to my sport.  And I do not share my ancestors’ taste in statuary.  Hence—­” Here Trefusis opened a drawer, took out a pistol, and fired at the Hebe in the farthest niche.

“Well done!” said Erskine coolly, as the last fragment of Hebe’s head crumbled at the touch of the bullet.

“Very fruitlessly done,” said Trefusis.  “I am a good shot, but of what use is it to me?  None.  I once met a gamekeeper who was a Methodist.  He was a most eloquent speaker, but a bad shot.  If he could have swapped talents with me I would have given him ten thousand pounds to boot willingly, although he would have profited as much as I by the exchange alone.  I have no more desire or need to be a good shot than to be king of England, or owner of a Derby winner, or anything else equally ridiculous, and yet I never missed my aim in my life—­thank blind fortune for nothing!”