It was an ideal sitting-room for a college student, the luxury of the appointments absolutely subservient to taste and simplicity.  Heavy red curtains divided the sitting-room from the bedroom beyond, and imparted a degree of genial warmth to the atmosphere.  Russian candlesticks of highly polished brass stood about on the mantel-piece and book shelves.  Above the high oak wainscoting the walls were covered with dark red paper, against which background brown photographs of famous paintings showed to excellent advantage.  They were reproductions of Botticelli, Rembrant, Franz Hals and Velasquez hung with artistic irregularity.  Above the mantel-piece were curious old weapons, swords, matchetes, flintlocks and carbines.  A helmet and breastplate filled the space between the two windows.  Some dozen or more of pipe racks held the young collegian’s famous collection of pipes that told the history of smoking from the introduction during the reign of Elizabeth, down to the present day.

In taking a mental inventory of his household goods, Sanderson’s eyes fell on the photograph of a woman on the mantel-piece.  He frowned.  What right had she there, when his mind was full of another?  He walked over to the picture and threw it into the fire.  It was not the first picture to know a similar fate after occupying that place of honor.

The blackened edges of the picture were whirling up the chimney, when Sanderson’s attention was arrested by a knock.

“Come in,” he called, and a young man of about his own age entered.  Without being in the least ill-looking, there was something repellent about the new comer.  His eyes were shifty and too close together to be trustworthy.  Otherwise no fault could be found with his appearance.

“Well, Langdon, how are you?” his host asked, but there was no warmth in his greeting.

“As well as a poor devil like me ever is,” began Langdon obsequiously.  He sighed, looked about the comfortable room and finished with:  “Lucky dog.”

Sanderson stood on no ceremony with his guest, who was a thoroughly unscrupulous young man.  Once or twice Langdon had helped Sanderson out of scrapes that would have sent him home from college without his degree, had they come to the ears of the faculty.  In return for this assistance, Sanderson had lent him large sums of money, which the owner entertained no hopes of recovering.  Sanderson tried to balance matters by treating Langdon with scant ceremony when they were alone.

“Well, old man,” began his host, “I do not flatter myself that I owe this call to any personal charm.  You dropped in to ease a little financial embarrassment by the request of a loan—­am I not right?”

“Right, as usual, Sandy, though I’d hardly call it a loan.  You know I was put to a devil of a lot of trouble about that Newton affair, and it cost money to secure a shut mouth.”

Sanderson frowned.  “This is the fifth time I have had the pleasure of settling for that Newton affair, Langdon.  It seems to have become a sort of continuous performance.”