you may as well save time by telling me at once."

"It's Beaumont-Greene," faltered Fluff.

"That fat beast! What's he done?"

"He hasn't done much--yet."

"Tell everything!"

"He came into my room one night and turned me up in my bed. I woke, on
my head, in the dark, half-smothered, and couldn't think what had
happened; it was simply awful. Then I heard his beastly voice saying,
'If I let you down, will you do what I ask you?' I'd have promised
anything to get out of that horrible, choking prison, and now he
threatens to turn me up every night, and I dream of it----"

"Go on," said John, grimly. "No, you needn't go on. I can guess what
this low cad is up to."

"He said he'd be my friend; as if I'd have a beast like that for a
friend."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Yes, I did."

"You're a good-plucked 'un, Esme. And he's made it warm for you ever
since?"

"Yes."

"But he hasn't turned you up again?"

"N-no; but he will. I'd almost sooner he'd do it, and have done with it.
I can't sleep."

"Now, don't be a silly fool," John commanded. "I'm going to think this
out, and I'll bet I make that fat, pimply beast sit up and howl."

"Thanks awfully, John."

But the more John thought of what he had undertaken to do, the less
clearly he saw his way to do it. Evidently Beaumont-Greene was too
prudent to bully Fluff; he had resorted to the crueller alternative of
terrorizing him. Lawrence would have settled this fellow's hash--so John
reflected--in a jiffy, but Trieve, "Miss Trieve," was hopelessly
incapable. Presently inspiration came. He seized an opportunity when
Beaumont-Greene happened to be by himself; then he marched boldly into
his room, leaving the door ajar.

"Hullo! what do you want?"

Beaumont-Greene was sitting opposite the fire, reading a novel and
leisurely consuming macaroons.

"I want you to leave young Kinloch alone--_please_."

Beaumont-Greene nearly choked; then he spluttered out--

"Say that again, will you?"

"I want you to leave young Kinloch alone."

"Really? Anything else?"

"Nothing more, thank you."

Beaumont-Greene slowly raised himself out of his chair and glared at
John, whose head came to his chin.

"You've plenty of cheek."

"What I have isn't spotty, anyway."

John saw the veins begin to swell in Beaumont-Greene's throat. He
thought with relief of the door ajar, but it was part of his policy--a
carefully devised policy--to provoke, if possible, a scene. Then oth