.

"Hat? What hat?" she choked out.

"Why is the door of her bedroom locked? Why is it locked--locked?"

The stillness of the crepuscular hall seemed to palpitate with the
woman's breath.

"Miss Haden must have locked it when she went out," she stammered.

"Is that the truth?" Michael demanded. "It's not the truth. It's a lie.
You wouldn't be panting like a fish in a basket, unless there was
something wrong. I'll break the door in."

"No, Mr. Fane, don't do that!" the woman groaned out, in a cracked
expostulation. "This is the first time since you've been away. And it
was an old friend."

"How dare you tell me anything about him? Guy! Guy!"

Michael rushed into the big room and dragged Guy out.

"Come away, come away, come away! I've been sold!"

"If you'd only listen a moment. I could----" Miss Harper began.

Michael pushed her out of their path.

"What on earth is it?" Guy asked.

"Come on, don't hang about in this hell of a house. Come on, Guy."

Michael had flung the door back to slam into Miss Harper's face, and,
seizing Guy by the wrist, he dragged him up the steps, and had started
to run down the road, when Guy shouted:

"Michael, the taxi! The taxi's waiting with our bags."

"Oh, very well, in a taxi then, a taxi if you like," Michael chattered,
and he plunged into it.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Cheyne Walk. But drive quickly. Don't hang about up and down this
road."

The driver looked round with an expression of injured dignity, shook his
head in exclamation, and drove off.

"What on earth has happened?" Guy asked. "And why on earth are you
holding a top-hat?"

Michael burst into laughter.

"So I am. Look at it. A top-hat. I say, Guy, did you ever hear of anyone
being cut out by a top-hat, cuckolded by a top-hat? We'll present it to
the driver. Driver! Do you want a top-hat?"

"Here, who are you having a game with?" demanded the driver, pulling up
the car.

"I'm not having a game with anybody," Michael said. "But two people and
this top-hat have just been having a hell of a game with me. You'd much
better take it as a present. I shall only throw it away. He refuses,"
Michael went on. "He refuses a perfectly good top-hat. Who's the maker?
My god, his dirty greasy head has obliterated the name of the maker.
Good-bye, hat! Drive on, drive on!" he shouted to the driver, and hurled
the hat spinning under an omnibus. Then he turned to Guy.

"I've been sold by the girl I was goin