"What days, Mr.Jeffrey ?" "To-day and Saturdays, ten o'clock.

I'm sorry, Mr.St.George, but I'm a very busy man and now--" "Good-by," St.George cried triumphantly.
In half an hour he was at the Grand Central station, boarding a train for the Reformatory town.

It was a little after ten o'clock when he rang the bell at the house presided over by Chillingworth's "rabble of wild eagles." The Reformatory, a boastful, brick building set in grounds that seemed freshly starched and ironed, had a discoloured door that would have frowned and threatened of its own accord, even without the printed warnings pasted to its panels stating that no application for admission, with or without permits, would be honoured upon any day save Thursday.

This was Tuesday.
Presently, the chains having fallen within after a feudal rattling, an old man who looked born to the business of snapping up a drawbridge in lieu of a taste for any other exclusiveness peered at St.George through absurd smoked glasses, cracked quite across so that his eyes resembled buckles.
"Good morning," said St.George; "has the Readers' Guild arrived yet ?" The old man grated out an assent and swung open the door, which creaked in the pitch of his voice.

The bare hall was cut by a wall of steel bars whose gate was padlocked, and outside this wall the door to the warden's office stood open.