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“Well, I suppose I'd better take you along to your dog-kennel,” said Mr. Ingleby, with gloom.

“Right-ho!” said Mr. Bredon. “Oh, rather. Yes.”

“We're all along this corridor,” added Mr. Ingleby, leading the way. “You'll find your way about in time. That's Garrett's room and that's Willis's, and this is yours, between Miss Meteyard and me. That iron staircase opposite me goes down to the floor below; mostly group managers and conference rooms. Don't fall down it, by the way. The man whose room you've got tumbled down it last week and killed himself.”

“No, did he?” said Mr. Bredon, startled.

“Bust his neck and cracked his skull,” said Mr. Ingleby. “On one of those knobs.”

“Why do they put knobs on staircases?” expostulated Mr. Bredon. “Cracking fellows' skulls for them? It's not right.”

“No, it isn't,” said Miss Rossiter, arriving with her hands full of scribbling-blocks and blotting-paper. “They're supposed to prevent the boys from sliding down the hand-rail, but it's the stairs themselves that are so—oh, I say, push on. There's Mr. Armstrong coming up. They don't like too much being said about the iron staircase.”