Archie flicked the ash from his cigarette into the finger-bowl.

“Oh, I don’t know, you know,” he said, “Somehow, none of our family ever have.  I don’t know why it is, but whenever a Moffam starts out to do things he infallibly makes a bloomer.  There was a Moffam in the Middle Ages who had a sudden spasm of energy and set out to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, dressed as a wandering friar.  Rum ideas they had in those days.”

“Did he get there?”

“Absolutely not!  Just as he was leaving the front door his favourite hound mistook him for a tramp—­or a varlet, or a scurvy knave, or whatever they used to call them at that time—­and bit him in the fleshy part of the leg.”

“Well, at least he started.”

“Enough to make a chappie start, what?”

Roscoe Sherriff sipped his coffee thoughtfully.  He was an apostle of Energy, and it seemed to him that he could make a convert of Archie and incidentally do himself a bit of good.  For several days he had been, looking for someone like Archie to help him in a small matter which he had in mind.

“If you’re really keen on doing things,” he said, “there’s something you can do for me right away.”

Archie beamed.  Action was what his soul demanded.

“Anything, dear boy, anything!  State your case!”

“Would you have any objection to putting up a snake for me?”

“Putting up a snake?”

“Just for a day or two.”

“But how do you mean, old soul?  Put him up where?”

“Wherever you live.  Where do you live?  The Cosmopolis, isn’t it?  Of course!  You married old Brewster’s daughter.  I remember reading about it.”

“But, I say, laddie, I don’t want to spoil your day and disappoint you and so forth, but my jolly old father-in-law would never let me keep a snake.  Why, it’s as much as I can do to make him let me stop on in the place.”

“He wouldn’t know.”

“There’s not much that goes on in the hotel that he doesn’t know,” said Archie, doubtfully.

“He mustn’t know.  The whole point of the thing is that it must be a dead secret.”

Archie flicked some more ash into the finger-bowl.

“I don’t seem absolutely to have grasped the affair in all its aspects, if you know what I mean,” he said.  “I mean to say—­in the first place—­why would it brighten your young existence if I entertained this snake of yours?”

“It’s not mine.  It belongs to Mme. Brudowska.  You’ve heard of her, of course?”

“Oh yes.  She’s some sort of performing snake female in vaudeville or something, isn’t she, or something of that species or order?”

“You’re near it, but not quite right.  She is the leading exponent of high-brow tragedy on any stage in the civilized world.”

“Absolutely!  I remember now.  My wife lugged me to see her perform one night.  It all comes back to me.  She had me wedged in an orchestra-stall before I knew what I was up against, and then it was too late.  I remember reading in some journal or other that she had a pet snake, given her by some Russian prince or other, what?”