Francis was looking forward to his visit to Buys-Bozzaris. His confusion and ineptitude which had made it impossible to cope with a blow in the face or a kick in the rump at Carlyle Rural was long behind him; he was prepared to be moderately rough with the fat count if that should be necessary. His banker’s blood, which he had not known he possessed, was running hot, and he wanted his money. After dinner at Corpus he made his way the short distance back to Canterbury House, and knocked on the familiar door.

“Cornish? Happy to see you. Let me give you a drink. Am I to suppose that you have made up your mind about joining us in our political work? You can talk freely Roskalns here is one of us, and this isn’t a poker-night, so nobody else is likely to drop in.”

“I’ve come about those IOUs that Charlie Fremantle gave you.”

“Oh—no need to worry. That’s all over. Charlie has paid, like an honest chap.”

“Come on, Basil. You flogged those notes.”

“Well—same thing, isn’t it? Charlie is clear.”

“No, Charlie bloody well isn’t clear. The money to pay came from a cheque that was forged in my name. I want a hundred and fifty pounds from you.”

“A hundred and fifty—Oh, come, Cornish, Charlie owed me exactly ninety-seven pounds, fourteen and elevenpence, and I haven’t had it yet. I am expecting a visit from the collectors, this evening, as a matter of fact. Did that naughty boy sophisticate a cheque for a hundred and fifty? That wasn’t very honest of him, was it?”

“No, and it wasn’t very honest of you to give those notes to collectors, as you call them, who are shaking Charlie down for a hundred and fifty, out of which you will presumably get your ninety-seven, fourteen and eleven. I want the names of those fellows. I’m going to turn them over to the Proctors.”

“Now, now, Cornish, you’re heated. You wouldn’t do that. There are rules, unwritten rules, among gentlemen about debts of this sort. Not bringing in the Proggins is almost Rule Number One. Of course Rule Number One is, always pay up.”

“But not with my money.”

“What about my money? Why are you talking to me? Talk to Charlie. He’s the naughty boy.”

“I’ll certainly talk to Charlie. But I’m out a hundred and fifty, and I thought you might have been paid already.”

“Not a bean. I’m waiting, as I told you. And I shall have something to say to those collectors. A hundred and fifty pounds for a debt of ninety-seven, fourteen and eleven. It’s outrageous!”

“Yes, and so is selling IOUs. Why didn’t you collect yourself?”

“Oh, Cornish, you’re impossible. One has a certain position. One doesn’t go about with a little greasy book, rapping on doors. Or do they, where you come from?”

“Never mind where I come from.”

This might have become rancorous, if there had not been a tap on the door. If Francis had not been so busy with Buys-Bozzaris, he could have heard shuffling and whispering outside. Roskalns answered, tried to shut the door after he had peeped through a crack, and was flung backward, as two determined men thrust their way in. In Oxford there are several gradations of society: members of the University, in all their diversity, attendants and servants of members of the University, in all their diversity, and people who are not associated with the University, who are also various, but look entirely different from the other two classes. These men were very plainly of class number three.

“Look here, Mr. Booze-Bozzaris, this will never do. Young Fremantle has scarpered.”

“You mean he has gone?”

“What I said. Scarpered.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well then, let me put you straight. We visited him, as per arrangement, and he said, gimme a little time to get the money together, and we said rightyho, but no funny stuff, see? Let’s have it, and in cash. Because we are well aware that there can be dishonesty in these matters of collection, and we didn’t want none of that. So we kept an eye on the place, and he came and went, and came and went, quite normal. It’s one of the colleges he’s in; New College. Whenever we inquires, the porter says he’s in. But those fellows would say anything. When we didn’t see him yesterday we went quiet up to his rooms, and the long and short of it is, he scarpered.”

“You’re telling me you can’t pay me?”

“What do you mean, pay you, Mr. Booze-Bozzaris? We paid you fifty quid on account for those notes, agreeing to make up the rest of the ninety-seven, fourteen and eleven after we’d collected from Fremantle—”

“After you collected a hundred and fifty quid from him, you mean,” said Buys-Bozzaris.

“That’s by the way. We have to have something for our trouble and risk, haven’t we? But now we shall have to ask for that fifty quid back, because we been diddled.”

“But not by me.”

“Never mind who by. Let’s have it.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Now look, Mr. Booze-Bozzaris, we don’t want trouble in any shape nor form, but it’s pay up now or my colleague here may have to do a little persuading.”

The colleague, who said nothing, cleared his throat softly, and flexed his hands, rather like a pianist. For the first time the collector who did the talking spoke to Francis. “You’ll want to leave, sir,” he said; “this is just some private business.”

“Not private from me,” said Francis. “I have some money to recover from Charlie myself.”

“This is getting too complicated altogether,” said the collector. “We got no time to waste. Now just stand perfectly still, Mr. Booze-Bozzaris, and you two other gents keep out of the way, while my colleague makes a search that will be perfectly polite and easy, so long as there is no resistance.”

The colleague moved toward Basil gently but firmly, his hands extended as if he might be going to tickle him. Buys-Bozzaris backed toward a corner, and as he did so his hand went to the pocket of his jacket.

“Oh no you don’t!” said the talking collector. The colleague seized the arm that Buys-Bozzaris jerked upward. The pistol caught in the top of his pocket, went off with a roar that was like a cannon in the room, and Buys-Bozzaris fell to the floor with a scream that was louder still.

“Christ! Shot himself!” said the collector.

“Shot off his goolies!” said the colleague, speaking for the first time. The two rushed to the door, through the small hall and into the street, and were gone.

Gunfire in Oxford is uncommon. The University Statutes strictly forbid it. In a few seconds Mr. Tasnim Khan from the first floor, Mr. Westerby from the second, Mr. Colney-Overend from across the hall, and the landlord were all in the room, shouting contradictory advice. It was Francis who lugged Buys-Bozzaris into a chair, and it became apparent that he had shot himself, not very seriously, in the foot.

Half an hour later the injured man, moaning like a cow in labour, had been taken by Roskalns to the Radcliffe Infirmary in a taxi. Francis had been with the landlord to hunt up the Proctors, and give an account of the affair which said only that two men had visited the Bulgarian, demanded money related apparently to a debt, that nobody had fired a gun at anyone, and the wound was pure accident. The Junior Proctor, who heard it all, raised his eyebrows at the word “pure”, took names, warned Francis not to leave Oxford until the matter had been fully investigated, and called the hospital to say that Buys-Bozzaris was not to be released until he had been questioned.

Francis went to Lady Margaret Hall, where, as it still lacked a quarter of an hour before the closing of the gate, he was able to have a short talk with Ismay.

“Oh yes, Charlie’s scarpered. I knew he would.”

“Where’s he gone?”

“I don’t suppose it matters if you know, because he won’t be back and he won’t be found. He’s gone to Spain to join the Cause.”