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There Cobby saw him horsed and off, then walked back to his hotel, wondering what had become of Rolls.

It was not till an hour later that Rolls came in, looking sour, to tell the tale that, having gone with one of the Square auctioneers to drink a bottle of fizz, they both had got imprisoned in a room—something gone wrong with the catch of the door, which in the end had had to be forced.

In view of which odd disease of the door-catch, when Cobby told of the bargain with the man whose mouth was sore, Rolls' countenance fell.

"My God, Cobby," he said ruefully, "you might have waited for me to crop up."

"Why, though?" Cobby asked.

Rolls had no answer; but felt ill at ease.

"And what do you think his name is?" asked Cobby.

"Beelzebub—I shouldn't wonder," said Rolls, strolling about.

"Douglas Macray."

"Same thing as Beelzebub," said Rolls.... "But you mean to say he had the devil's cheek to give you that name?"

"Oh, no cheek, I think; that chances to be the fellow's name: he's all right."

"Well, you're the newest of new chums, and no mistake! Haven't you learned yet to mistrust your man, Cobby?"