“I ain’t a-goin’ to be mean to nobody,” she said; “my gentlemen is always refined, even if they do sometimes forget theirselves when young and sporty.  Mr. Erroll is now a-bed, sir, and asleep like a cherub, ice havin’ been served three times with towels, extra.  Would you be good enough to mention the bill to him in the morning?—­the grocer bein’ sniffy.”  And she handed the wadded and inky memorandum of damages to Selwyn, who pocketed it with a nod of assurance.

“There was,” she added, following him to the door, “a lady here to see you twice, leavin’ no name or intentions otherwise than business affairs of a pressin’ nature.”

“A—­lady?” he repeated, halting short on the stairs.

“Young an’ refined, allowin’ for a automobile veil.”

“She—­she asked for me?” he repeated, astonished.

“Yes, sir.  She wanted to see your rooms.  But havin’ no orders, Captain Selwyn—­although I must say she was that polite and ladylike and,” added Mrs. Greeve irrelevantly, “a art rocker come for you, too, and another for Mr. Lansing, which I placed in your respective settin’-rooms.”

“Oh,” said Selwyn, laughing in relief, “it’s all right, Mrs. Greeve.  The lady who came is my sister, Mrs. Gerard; and whenever she comes you are to admit her whether or not I am here.”

“She said she might come again,” nodded Mrs. Greeve as he mounted the stairs; “am I to show her up any time she comes?”

“Certainly—­thank you,” he called back—­“and Mr. Gerard, too, if he calls.”

He looked into Boots’s room as he passed; that gentleman, in bedroom costume of peculiar exotic gorgeousness, sat stuffing a pipe with shag, and poring over a mass of papers pertaining to the Westchester Air Line’s property and prospective developments.

“Come in, Phil,” he called out; “and look at the dinky chair somebody sent me!” But Selwyn shook his head.

“Come into my rooms when you’re ready,” he said, and closed the door again, smiling and turning away toward his own quarters.

Before he entered, however, he walked the length of the hall and cautiously tried the handle of Gerald’s door.  It yielded; he lighted a match and gazed at the sleeping boy where he lay very peacefully among his pillows.  Then, without a sound, he reclosed the door and withdrew to his apartment.

As he emerged from the bedroom in his dressing-gown he heard the front door-bell below peal twice, but paid no heed, his attention being concentrated on the chair which Nina had sent him.  First he walked gingerly all around it, then he ventured nearer to examine it in detail, and presently he tried it.

“Of course,” he sighed—­“bless her heart!—­it’s a perfectly impossible chair.  It squeaks, too.”  But he was mistaken; the creak came from the old stairway outside his door, weighted with the tread of Mrs. Greeve.  The tread and the creaking ceased; there came a knock, then heavy descending footsteps on the aged stairway, every separate step protesting until the incubus had sunk once more into the depths from which it had emerged.