was a shuffling of feet and the scraping of a chair across the
room. Stover looked up in surprise.

"Take your time, John," said The Roman, who had risen. Then, without
another word, he turned and left the room.

Stover smiled to himself. He knew that trick. He waited for the sudden
reopening of the door, but no noise came. He frowned and, mechanically
looking at the questions, opened his book at the place designated.
Then he raised his head and listened again.

All at once he became very angry. The Roman was putting him on his
honor--he had no right to do any such thing! It changed all their
preparations. It was a low-down, malignant trick. It took away all the
elements of danger that glorified the conspiracy. It made it easy and,
therefore, mean.

At the window came a timid scratching. Stover shook his head. The
Roman would return. Then he would give the signal willingly. So he
folded his arms sternly and waited--but no footsteps slipped along
outside the door. The Roman had indeed left him to his honor.

A great, angry lump came in his throat, angry tears blurred his eyes.
He hated The Roman, he despised him; it was unfair, it was malicious,
but he could not do what he would have done. There _was_ a difference.

All at once the bowels of the House seemed rent asunder, as down the
stairs, bumping and smashing, went the liberated water cooler.
Instantly a chorus of shrieks arose, steps rushing to and fro, and
then quiet.

Still The Roman did not come. Stover glanced at the paragraphs
selected, and oh, mockery and bitterness, two out of three happened to
be passages he had read with Beekstein not an hour before. His eye
went over them, he remembered them perfectly.

"If that ain't the limit!" he said, choking. "To know 'em after all.
Of course, now I can't do 'em. Of course, now if I hand 'em in the old
rhinoceros will think I cribbed 'em. Of all the original Jobs I am the
worst! This is the last straw!"

When half an hour later The Roman returned Stover was sitting erect,
with folded arms and lips compressed.

"Ah, Stover, all through?" said The Roman, as though the House had not
just been blown asunder. "Hand in your paper."

Stover stiffly arose and handed him the foolscap. The Roman took it
with a frowning little glance. At the top was written in big, defiant
letters: "John H. Stover."

Below there was nothing at all.

Stover stood, swaying from heel to heel, watching The Roman.

"What the deuce is