As we got on with the thing I found myself almost keenly interested.  It was I who called in the housekeeper and broke matters to her, and it was I chiefly who fixed up the inverted bed.  In fact, I spent two whole days at his flat.  I am a handy, interfering sort of man with a screw-driver, and I made all sorts of ingenious adaptations for him—­ran a wire to bring his bells within reach, turned all his electric lights up instead of down, and so on.  The whole affair was extremely curious and interesting to me, and it was delightful to think of Pyecraft like some great, fat blow-fly, crawling about on his ceiling and clambering round the lintel of his doors from one room to another, and never, never, never coming to the club any more...

Then, you know, my fatal ingenuity got the better of me.  I was sitting by his fire drinking his whisky, and he was up in his favourite corner by the cornice, tacking a Turkey carpet to the ceiling, when the idea struck me.  “By Jove, Pyecraft!” I said, “all this is totally unnecessary.”

And before I could calculate the complete consequences of my notion I blurted it out.  “Lead underclothing,” said I, and the mischief was done.

Pyecraft received the thing almost in tears.  “To be right ways up again——­” he said.

I gave him the whole secret before I saw where it would take me.  “Buy sheet lead,” I said, “stamp it into discs.  Sew ’em all over your underclothes until you have enough.  Have lead-soled boots, carry a bag of solid lead, and the thing is done!  Instead of being a prisoner here you may go abroad again, Pyecraft; you may travel——­”

A still happier idea came to me.  “You need never fear a shipwreck.  All you need do is just slip off some or all of your clothes, take the necessary amount of luggage in your hand, and float up in the air——­”

In his emotion he dropped the tack-hammer within an ace of my head.  “By Jove!” he said, “I shall be able to come back to the club again.”

“The thing pulled me up short.  By Jove!” I said, faintly.  “Yes.  Of course—­you will.”

He did.  He does.  There he sits behind me now, stuffing—­as I live!—­a third go of buttered teacake.  And no one in the whole world knows—­except his housekeeper and me—–­that he weighs practically nothing; that he is a mere boring mass of assimilatory matter, mere clouds in clothing, niente, nefas, the most inconsiderable of men.  There he sits watching until I have done this writing.  Then, if he can, he will waylay me.  He will come billowing up to me...

He will tell me over again all about it, how it feels, how it doesn’t feel, how he sometimes hopes it is passing off a little.  And always somewhere in that fat, abundant discourse he will say, “The secret’s keeping, eh?  If any one knew of it—­I should be so ashamed...  Makes a fellow look such a fool, you know.  Crawling about on a ceiling and all that...”

And now to elude Pyecraft, occupying, as he does, an admirable strategic position between me and the door.