“I do,” said I.

“Would you think so well of him if you knew that he conceals the Communion wafer under his tongue, and carries it back to his room, unconsumed?” said he.

I turned pale. “And what does he do with it then?” I asked.

“The same thing that he did with the palms he removed from the Chapel on last Palm Sunday,” said Asmodeus.

“Surely you are going to tell me what that was?” said I.

“Why surely? Because I am a devil, do you suppose I have no honour? Our code is very strict—stricter than yours—and I shan’t tell you a thing.”

He was getting somewhat above himself, as devils are apt to do. But I am not wholly without experience of devils, and I know a trick or two—and a word or two that they fear. I looked meaningly toward the bottle, and wondered if I would utter a word which would make him squeeze himself back inside it. He must have read my thoughts, for he immediately became all compliance.

“You mustn’t mind my little bit of fun,” he said, with a cringe. “Of course I shall tell you anything you want to know. And this is such a very peculiar college that no one could possibly keep up with all the strange happenings here. Shall we make a little tour? You would find it of the most unusual interest.”

Should I have refused? Yes, I should never have let him leave the room where the bottle was. My control of the situation meant control of the bottle. But curiosity—ah, fatal curiosity! I nodded, and in an instant I felt myself wafted out of the window, seemingly wrapped in the little demon’s robe, and we floated around the quadrangle most comfortably, looking in the windows. What we saw was pretty much what you would expect. There were Junior Fellows working, and Junior Fellows not working, and people playing cards, and people talking earnestly, and one or two scenes from which a modest man would have averted his eyes—but modesty has never been one of my foibles. There were rooms that looked like jungles, because the inhabitants were fond of potted plants: and there were rooms, usually those of mathematicians, as bare of any signs of human habitation as a Massey College room can be. In one room a young man was stirring a variety of little test tubes, which he warmed from time to time over a candle. I knew the man; he was a young immunologist.

“You see, he is making his perfume essence,” said Asmodeus, “and he will sell it as do-it-yourself perfume kits: simply add gin and stir. Makes the wearer irresistible, especially to lovers of gin. That is how he pays his way through the university.”

From the window of another room floated a rich mingling of aromas-of soaps and langorously scented unguents. “That is the room of your next Hall Don—the Conservative one,” said Asmodeus; “he is devoted to the pleasure of the bath. It is the only weakness in a character of Roman austerity.”

I was surprised to hear him speak of another Hall Don, but I nodded in agreement. “You do not suggest that there is anything unusual about any of this, do you?” I asked.

“Not this,” said he; “but there is much more to the College than what may be seen through these windows. Look here.”

Without knowing it, I had been wafted inside the building, into a chamber unknown to me, and icy cold. Then I knew where I was; it was the large freezer, adjacent to the kitchens. On every side were trays of cold meat, and from a number of large hooks hung full sides of what I assumed to be carcasses that had not yet been cut up.

“Now this is a place of special interest,” said Asmodeus. He tapped one of the hanging slabs of meat, and it gave out a dull sound, unlike either meat or wood, unpleasant to the ear. “Who would you suppose that was?” he asked.

“Who?” said I, with sinking heart.

His deferential smile turned to an evil leer. “Who—or what?” said he. “Hard to say, isn’t it?”

“You cannot mean—” cried I, and whether it was horror, or the dreadful cold of the place, my voice died in my throat.

“I don’t mean anything, in particular,” said he, enjoying himself immensely. “But it is a commonplace of legal knowledge that murder is more often committed by cooks than any other profession. Don’t you ever wonder what became of that Junior Fellow who was here last year, and who wrote such unpleasant things about the food in the Suggestion Book?”

“He left to study elsewhere. In the States, I believe,” said I.

“Of course that is what you believe. But you don’t know,” said Asmodeus.

“Give me your word that that is baby beef,” I demanded.

“Very well; I give you my word,” said he, with a subtle smile. And that was when I realized with dismay that the bottle to which I could so easily have returned him was still in the Hall Don’s room, and that I had been out-generalled. Or, to be more accurate, out-devilled.

“Your teeth are chattering,” said he, “and it is a sound I never could abide. Let us leave this place.” And in a flash we were somewhere else—somewhere very high above the quadrangle. We were, indeed, on the top of the clock-tower. Ill-natured critics of this building have said that the ornament on the top of our tower looks like a large diningroom chair, and indeed, there I was, sitting on it, with Asmodeus cuddled snugly in my lap.

How was I to get down? I knew that such a devil as Asmodeus might cast me down. I must be very careful to do nothing that might provoke my nasty little guest.

“Yes, indeed you must,” said Asmodeus, and once again I understood that my thoughts were an open book to him.

And then I thought of Douglas Baines, and his desire for a scientific ghost story. “Can’t we be scientific about this whole affair?” said I; “surely you and I can arrive at some arrangement that does not involve my being cast down from this high place?”

“We can be as scientific as you please,” said he. “We can even use the language of science. Let’s try computer science: it’s very much in vogue. Let us establish the parameters of our problem. Then let’s extrapolate. Here we sit—I comfortably and you uncomfortably—indulging in meaningful interface on the top of the College tower. You don’t like me. I heard you think so. If we are to reach a conclusion agreeable to us both, you must immediately cease this negative input, and embrace a more positive modality. If you were to fall in the pool from here, it would not go well with you. You are a man of heavy frame and unathletic habit of life. The world would assume that, like so many academics, you had wearied of working lunches and self-perpetuating committees, and had taken flight to a quarter where you foolishly believed that they no longer existed.”

“I know,” I said; “they would suppose that my abundant Jupiter influence had at last put itself squarely behind my malign Saturnian influence, and I had committed suicide.”

“What’s all that about your Jupiter and your Saturn?” said Asmodeus, pricking up his ears.

I told him. “The man who had you in the bottle told me that,” said I. “And as he is an astrologer, I suppose he ought to know.”

Asmodeus laughed as I never expected to hear a devil laugh. He laughed until the tinkling of silver bells found the resonating note of the great St. Catharine bell in our tower, and it seemed to be laughing too, and the whole quadrangle resounded with Tinkle-Boom, Tinkle-Boom. The resonance of the great bell struck upward through the block of masonry on which I sat and at every Boom a disagreeable thrill ravished my person. Several of the Junior Fellows threw open their windows to see what was happening, but of course they never thought of looking so high as where I sat, in that terrible chair.

When he could speak, he said: “He is not an astrologer, only an apprentice. If he were a fully-trained astrologer he would already be Leader of the NDP. I shall tell you a secret, though I realize it weakens my own hold over you. He has quite overlooked the fact that you are a Double Virgo.”