They met no one on the road, though Mr. Percival Jones threw longing glances around, ready to appeal to any passer-by for rescue.  He was afraid to raise his voice in case it should rouse his youthful captor to murder.  He saw with joy the gate of his boarding-house and hastened up the walk and up the stairs.  The drawing-room door was open.  There was help and assistance, there was protection against this strange persecution.  He entered, followed closely by William.  It was about the time he had promised to read his “little effort” on the Coming of Spring to his circle of admirers.  A group of elderly ladies sat round the fire awaiting him.  Ethel was writing.  They turned as he entered and a gasp of horror and incredulous dismay went up.  It was that gasp that called him to a realisation of the fact that he was wearing a wastepaper basket over his head and shoulders, and that a mangy fur rug was tied round his arms.

“Mr. Jones!” they gasped.

He gave a wrench to his shoulders and the rug fell to the floor, revealing a bottle of brandy clasped in either arm.

“Mr. Jones!” they repeated.

“I caught him smugglin’” said William proudly.  “I caught him smugglin’ beer by the sea an’ he was drinking those two bottles he’d smuggled an’ he had thousands an’ thousands of cigars all over him, an’ I caught him, an’ he’s a smuggler an’ I brought him up here with my gun.  He’s a smuggler an’ I took him prisoner.”

Mr. Jones, red, and angry, his hair awry, glared through the wickerwork of his basket.  He moistened his lips.  “This is an outrage,” he spluttered.

Horrified elderly eyes stared at the incriminating bottles.

“He was drinkin’ ’em by the sea,” said William.

“Mr. Jones!” they chorused again.

He flung off his wastepaper basket and turned upon the proprietress of the establishment who stood by the door.

“I will not brook such treatment,” he stammered in fury.  “I leave your roof to-night.  I am outraged—­humiliated.  I—­I disdain to explain.  I—­leave your roof to-night.”

“Mr. Jones!” they said once more.

[Illustration:  “I CAUGHT HIM SMUGGLING,” WILLIAM EXPLAINED PROUDLY.  “HE HAD THOUSANDS AN’ THOUSANDS OF CIGARS AND THAT BEER!”]

Mr. Jones, still clasping his bottles, withdrew, pausing to glare at William on his way.

“You wicked boy!  You wicked little, untruthful boy,” he said.

William looked after him.  “He’s my prisoner an’ they’ve let him go,” he said aggrievedly.

Ten minutes later he wandered into the smoking room.  Mr. Brown sat miserably in a chair by a dying fire beneath a poor light.

“Is he still bleating there?” he said.  “Is this still the only corner where I can be sure of keeping my sanity?  Is he reading his beastly poetry upstairs?  Is he——­”