living every day in perfect contentment with a few
books and a few pictures. He must admire those cherry-red curtains and
those green shelves. He must respect the cloistral air Michael had
managed to import even into this warren of queer inhabitants whom as yet
he had scarcely seen. It was romantic to come like this into a small
secluded world which did not know him; to bring like this a fresh
atmosphere into a melancholy street of human beings who lived
perpetually in a social twilight. Michael's missionary affection began
to extend beyond Barnes and to embrace all the people in this house. He
felt a great fondness for them, a great desire to identify himself with
their aspirations, so that they would be glad to think he was living in
their midst. He began to feel very poignantly that his own existence
hitherto had been disgracefully unprofitable both to himself and
everybody else. He was grateful that destiny had brought him here to
fulfill what was plainly a purpose. But what did fate intend should be
his effect upon these people? To what was he to lead them? Michael had
an impulse to kneel down and pray for knowledge. He wished that Barnes
were not in this white room. Otherwise he would surely have knelt down,
and in the peace of the afternoon sunlight he might have resigned
himself to a condition of spirit he had coveted in vain for a very long
time.

Just then there was a tap at the door, and a middle-aged man with
blinking watery eyes and a green plush smoking-cap peeped round the
corner.

"Come in," Michael cheerfully invited him.

The stranger entered in a slipshod hesitant manner. He looked as if all
his clothes were on the verge of coming off, so much like a frayed
accordion did his trousers rest upon the carpet slippers; so wide a
space of shirt was visible between the top of the trousers and the
bottom of the waistcoat; so utterly amorphous was his gray alpaca coat.

"What I really came down for was a match," the stranger explained.

Michael offered him a box, and with fumbling hands he stored it away in
one of his pockets.

"You don't go in for puzzles, I suppose?" he asked tentatively. "But any
time I can help. I'm the Solutionist, you know. Don't let me keep you.
Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. I'm worrying out this week's lot in The
Golden Penny very slowly. I've really had a sort of a headache the last
few days--a very nasty headache. Do you know anything about cricketers?"
he asked, turning to Mic