“I was afraid it might be the Dean,” said Miss Briggs.

“No, said Harriet, ”so far I have held my hand. How is the patient?”

“Not too good,” said Miss Briggs.

“Ah. ‘His lordship has drunk his bath and gone to bed again.’ That’s about it, I suppose.” She strode across to the bed and looked down at Miss Cattermole, who opened her eyes with a groan. They were large, light, hazel eyes, set in a plump face that ought to have been of a pleasant rose-leaf pink. A quantity of fluffy brown hair tumbled damply about her brow, adding to the general impression of an Angora rabbit that had gone on the loose and was astonished at the result.

“Feeling bloody?” inquired Harriet, with sympathy.

“Horrible,” said Miss Cattermole.

“Serve you right,” said Harriet. “If you must take your drink like a man the least you can do is to carry it like a gentleman. It’s a great thing to know your own limitations.”

Miss Cattermole looked so woebegone that Harriet began to laugh. “You don’t seem to be a very practised hand at this kind of thing. Look here; I’ll get you something to pull you together and then I’m going to talk to you.” She went out briskly and nearly fell over Mr. Pomfret in the outer doorway.

“You here?” said Harriet. “I told you, no visitors in the morning. It makes a noise in the quad and is contrary to regulations.”

“I’m not a visitor,” said Mr. Pomfret, grinning. “I’ve been attending Miss Hillyard’s lecture on Constitutional Developments.”

“God help you!”

“And seeing you cross the quad in this direction, I turned in that direction like the needle to the North. Dark,” said Mr. Pomfret, with animation, “and true and tender is the North. That’s a quotation. It’s very nearly the only one I know, so it’s a good thing it fits.”

“It does not fit. I am not feeling tender.”

“Oh!… how’s Miss Cattermole?”

“Bad hang-over. As you might expect.”

“Oh!… sorry… No row, I hope?”

“No.”

“Bless you!” said Mr. Pomfret. “I was lucky too. Friend of mine has a dashed good window. All quiet on the Western Front. So-look here! I wish there was something I could do to-”

“You shall,” said Harriet. She twitched his lecture notebook from under his arm and scribbled in it.

“Get that made up at the chemist’s, and bring it back. I’m damned if I want to go myself and ask for a recipe for hobnailed liver.”

Mr. Pomfret looked at her with respect.

“Where did you learn that one?” said he.

“Not at Oxford. I may say I have never had occasion to taste it; I hope it’s nasty. The quicker you can get it made up, the better, by the way.”

“I know, I know,” said Mr. Pomfret, disconsolately. “You’re fed up with the sight of me, and no wonder. But I do wish you’d come round some time and meet old Rogers. He’s incredibly penitent. Come and have tea. Or a drink or something. Come this afternoon. Do. Just to show there’s no ill feeling.”

Harriet was opening her mouth to say No, when she looked at Mr. Pomfret, and her heart softened. He had the appeal of a very young dog of a very large breed-a kind of amiable absurdity.

“All right,” said Harriet. “I will. Thank you very much.”

Mr. Pomfret exhausted himself in expressions of delight, and, still vocal, allowed himself to be shepherded to the gate, where, almost in the act of stepping out, he had to step back to allow the entrance of a tall, dark student wheeling a bicycle.

“Hullo Reggie,” cried the young woman, “looking for me?”

“Oh good morning,” said Mr. Pomfret, rather taken aback. Then, catching sight of a handsome leonine head over the student’s shoulder, he added with more assurance, “Hullo, Farringdon!”

“Hullo, Pomfret!” replied Mr. Farringdon. The adjective “Byronic” fitted him well enough, thought Harriet. He had an arrogant profile, a mass of close chestnut curls, hot brown eyes and a sulky mouth, and looked less pleased to see Mr. Pomfret than Mr. Pomfret to see him.

Mr. Pomfret presented Mr. Farringdon of New College to Harriet, and murmured that of course Miss Flaxman was known to her. Miss Flaxman stared coolly at Harriet and said how much she had enjoyed her detective talk the other night.

“We’re throwing a party at 6 o’clock,” went on Miss Flaxman to Mr. Pomfret. She pulled off her scholar’s gown and stuffed it unceremoniously into her bicycle-basket. “Care to come? In Leo’s room. Six o’clock. I think we’ve room for Reggie, haven’t we, Leo?”

“I suppose so,” said Mr. Farringdon, rather ungraciously. “There’ll be an awful crowd anyway.”

“Then we can always stuff in one more,” said Miss Flaxman. “Don’t mind Leo, Reggie; he’s mislaid his manners this morning.”

Mr. Pomfret appeared to think that somebody else’s manners had also been mislaid, for he replied with more spirit than Harriet had expected of him:

“I’m sorry; I’m afraid I’m engaged. Miss Vane is coming to tea with me.”

“Another time will do for that,” said Harriet.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Pomfret.

“Couldn’t you both come along, then, afterwards?” said Mr. Farringdon. “Always room for one more, as Catherine says.” He turned to Harriet. “I hope you will come, Miss Vane. We should be delighted.”

“Well-” said Harriet. It was Miss Flaxman’s turn to look sulky.

“I say,” said Mr. Farringdon, suddenly putting two and two together, “are you the Miss Vane? the novelist… You are! Then, look here, you simply must come. I shall be the most envied man in New College. We’re all detective fans there.”

“What about it?” said Harriet, deferring to Mr. Pomfret.

It was so abundantly clear that Miss Flaxman did not want Harriet, that Mr. Farringdon did not want Mr. Pomfret, and that Mr. Pomfret did not want to go, that she felt the novelist’s malicious enjoyment in a foolish situation. Since none of the party could now very well get out of the situation without open rudeness, the invitation was eventually accepted. Mr. Pomfret stepped into the street to join Mr. Farringdon; Miss Flaxman could scarcely get out of accompanying Miss Vane back through the quadrangle.

“I didn’t know you knew Reggie Pomfret,” said Miss Flaxman.

“Yes, we have met,” said Harriet. “Why didn’t you bring Miss Cattermole ome with you last night? Especially as you must have seen she was unwell.”

Miss Flaxman looked startled.

“It was nothing to do with me,” she said. “Was there a row?”

“No; but did you do anything to prevent it? You might have done, mightn’t you?”

“I can’t be Violet Cattermole’s guardian.”

“Anyway,” said Harriet, “you may be glad to know that some good has ome of this stupid business. Miss Cattermole is now definitely cleared of all suspicion about the anonymous letters and other disturbances. So it would h quite a good idea to behave decently to her, don’t you think?”

“I tell you,” said Miss Flaxman, “that I don’t care one way or the other about it.”

“No; but you started the rumours about her; it’s up to you to stop them now you know. I think it would be only fair to tell Mr. Farringdon the truth. If you do not, I shall.”

“You seem to be very much interested in my affairs. Miss Vane.”

“They seem to have aroused a good deal of general interest,” said Harriet bluntly. “I don’t blame you for the original misunderstanding, but now that it is cleared up-and you can take my word for it that it is-I am sure you will see it is unfair that Miss Cattermole should be made a scapegoat. You can do a lot with your own year. Will you do what you can?”

Miss Flaxman, perplexed and annoyed, and obviously not quite clear what status she was to accord to Harriet, said, rather grudgingly:

“Of course, if she didn’t do it, I’m glad. Very well. I’ll tell Leo.”

“Thank you very much,” said Harriet.

Mr. Pomfret must have run very fast both ways, for the prescription appeared in a remarkably short space of time, along with a large bunch of roses. The draught was a potent one, and enabled Miss Cattermole not only to appear in Hall, but to eat her lunch. Harriet pursued her as she was leaving and carried her off to her own room.