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in numerical sequence, ending on a double,” explained Cubitt.
    “In fact,” said Watchman very pleasantly, “you might call it. ‘Doing Time.’ Haven’t you ever done time, Mr. Legge?”
    “No,” said Legge, “but I’ll take you on. I’ll be there in a minute.”
    “Right. And if you beat me at this I’m damned if tomorrow night I don’t let you take a pot at my hand.”
    “Thank you,” said Legge. “I’ll remember.”

Chapter III
Further Advance by Watchman
    i
    “The chief fault in Luke,” said Sebastian Parish, “is that he is quite incapable of letting well alone.”
    Norman Cubitt tilted his hat over his eyes, peered from Parish to his canvas and began to scuffle among his tubes of paint. He uttered a short grunt.
    “More than that,” added Parish, “he glories in making bad a good deal worse. Do you mind my talking, old boy?”
    “No. Turn the head a little to the right. Too much. That’s right. I won’t keep you much longer. Just while the sun’s on the left side of the face. The shoulders are coming too far round again.”
    “You talk like a doctor about my members—
the
head,
the
face,
the
shoulders.”
    “You’re a vain fellow, Seb. Now, hold it like that, do. Yes, there’s something persistently impish in Luke. He jabs at people. What was he up to last night with Will Pomeroy and Legge?”
    “Damned if I know. Funny business, wasn’t it? Do you think he’s jealous of Will?”
    “Jealous?” repeated Cubitt. With his palette knife he laid an unctuous stroke of blue beside the margin of the painted head. “Why jealous?”
    “Well, because of Decima.”
    “Oh, nonsense! And yet I don’t know. He’s not your cousin for nothing, Seb. Luke’s got his share of the family vanity.”
    “I don’t know why you say I’m vain, damn you. I don’t think I’m vain at all. Do you know, I get an average of twelve drivelling letters a day from females in front? And do they mean a thing to me?”
    “You’d be bitterly disappointed if there was a falling off. Don’t move your shoulders. But you may be right about Luke.”
    “I’d like to know,” said Parish, “just how much last year’s little flirtation with Decima added up to.”
    “Would you? I don’t think it’s relevant.”
    “Well,” said Parish, “she’s an attractive wench. More ‘It’ to the square inch than most of them. It’s hard to say why. She’s got looks, of course, but not the looks that usually get over that way. Not the voluptuous type. Her—”
    “Shut up,” said Cubitt violently, and added: “I’m going to paint your mouth.”
    His own was set in an unusually tight line. He worked for a time in silence, stood back, and said abruptly:
    “I don’t really think Will Pomeroy was his objective. He was getting at Legge, and why the devil he should pick on a man he’d never seen in his life until last night is more than I can tell.”
    “I thought he seemed to be sort of probing. Trying to corner Legge in some way.”
    Cubitt paused with his knife over the canvas.
    “Yes,” he said slowly. “That’s perfectly true. I thought so, too. Trick of the trade, perhaps, Counsel’s curiosity. Almost, one expected him to put his foot on the seat of a chair and rest his elbow on his knee. Now I come to think of it, I believe he did hitch his coat up by the lapels.”
    “Characteristic,” pronounced Parish seriously. He himself had used these touches several times in trial scenes.
    Cubitt smiled. “But he sounded definitely malicious,” he added.
    “He’s not malicious,” said Parish uncomfortably.
    “Oh yes, he is,” said Cubitt coolly. “It’s one of his more interesting qualities. He can be very malicious.”
    “He can be very generous, too.”
    “I’m sure he can. I like Luke, you know. He interests me enormously.”
    “Apparently he likes you,” said Parish. “Apparently.”
    “Hullo!” Cubitt walked back from his canvas and stood squinting at it. “You said that with a wealth