ed to me.

"Come, sir," he said, courteously enough. "I warn you it is a
tragedy."

"But my friend is unhurt?" I asked anxiously. "The Sergeant told
me--"

"Doctor Foe had left the building--whether fortunately or
unfortunately you shall judge--half an hour before the mob
arrived. Saturday is, for lecturing, a _dies non_ with him, though
he often spends the whole day here at his work." Sir Elkin paused.
"By the way, did I catch your name aright, just now? You are Sir
Roderick Otway? . . . Then I ought to have thanked you, before this.
It was you who sent me a message yesterday. Foe himself made light
of it--"

"I wish I had come with him," said I, with something like a groan.

"I wish to Heaven you had," he agreed very seriously. "For I have a
confession to make. . . . I was a fool. I contented myself with
warning a few of the teaching staff to be on their guard, and with
setting an extra round of night-watchers. But I neglected to see to
it that Foe removed his papers to the College strong-room. I did
suggest it; but when he pointed out that it would involve an
afternoon's work at least, and went on to grumble that it would
probably cost him a month to re-sort them--that he hated all meddling
with his records--"

"My God!" I cried. "You don't tell me his records--eight years'
close work, as I know--"

"Eight years," repeated the Principal in grave echo as my words
failed. "Eight years' work: that would have cost a few hours to
secure--a week, perhaps, to rearrange; and in twenty minutes or so--"
He broke off. "You see that smoke?" he asked. "Over there by the
two tall Wellingtonias? . . . There, sir, goes up the last trace of
those eight years of our friend's devotion. Patience amounting to
genius, loyalty to truth for truth's sake so absolute that one
careless moment is dishonour, records calculated to a hair, tested,
retested, worked over, brooded over--there's what in twenty minutes
your Hun and your Goth can make of it in this world!"

"But, sir," I broke in, "books and packed paper don't burn in that
way! Foe's Regent-Park notes alone ran to thirty-two letter-cases
when I saw them last. He brought home two bullock-trunks from
Uganda, stuffed solid--"

Sir Elkin wheeled about sharply. "Mr. Farrell," said he, "you had a
letter in yesterday's _Times_."

"If it had crossed my mind, Sir Elkin," pleaded Farrell with a
wagging movement of his whole body, propitiatory, such as dogs make
w