“Dashed sensible of him, what?  Sound, practical chap, Squiffy.  But where on earth did he get the—­er—­materials?”

“From his room.  I made enquiries.  He has six large cases in his room.”

“Squiffy always was a chap of infinite resource!  Well, I’m dashed sorry this should have happened, don’t you know.”

“If it hadn’t been for you, the man would never have come here.”  Mr. Brewster brooded coldly.  “I don’t know why it is, but ever since you came to this hotel I’ve had nothing but trouble.”

“Dashed sorry!” said Archie, sympathetically.

“Grrh!” said Mr. Brewster.

Archie made his way meditatively to the lift.  The injustice of his father-in-law’s attitude pained him.  It was absolutely rotten and all that to be blamed for everything that went wrong in the Hotel Cosmopolis.

While this conversation was in progress, Lord Seacliff was enjoying a refreshing sleep in his room on the fourth floor.  Two hours passed.  The noise of the traffic in the street below faded away.  Only the rattle of an occasional belated cab broke the silence.  In the hotel all was still.  Mr. Brewster had gone to bed.  Archie, in his room, smoked meditatively.  Peace may have been said to reign.

At half-past two Lord Seacliff awoke.  His hours of slumber were always irregular.  He sat up in bed and switched the light on.  He was a shock-headed young man with a red face and a hot brown eye.  He yawned and stretched himself.  His head was aching a little.  The room seemed to him a trifle close.  He got out of bed and threw open the window.  Then, returning to bed, he picked up a book and began to read.  He was conscious of feeling a little jumpy, and reading generally sent him to sleep.

Much has been written on the subject of bed-books.  The general consensus of opinion is that a gentle, slow-moving story makes the best opiate.  If this be so, dear old Squiffy’s choice of literature had been rather injudicious.  His book was The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and the particular story, which he selected for perusal was the one entitled, “The Speckled Band.”  He was not a great reader, but, when he read, he liked something with a bit of zip to it.

Squiffy became absorbed.  He had read the story before, but a long time back, and its complications were fresh to him.  The tale, it may be remembered, deals with the activities of an ingenious gentleman who kept a snake, and used to loose it into people’s bedrooms as a preliminary to collecting on their insurance.  It gave Squiffy pleasant thrills, for he had always had a particular horror of snakes.  As a child, he had shrunk from visiting the serpent house at the Zoo; and, later, when he had come to man’s estate and had put off childish things, and settled down in real earnest to his self-appointed mission of drinking up all the alcoholic fluid in England, the distaste for Ophidia had lingered.  To a dislike for real snakes had been added a maturer shrinking from those which existed only in his imagination.  He could still recall his emotions on the occasion, scarcely three months before, when he had seen a long, green serpent which a majority of his contemporaries had assured him wasn’t there.