CHAPTER NINETEEN.
A FEEBLE CLUE.
Mr Fastnet's lodgings were a good deal less imposing than Roger, who had hitherto only met the owner at the club, had pictured to himself.
In fact, the small sitting-room, with bedroom to match, commonly furnished, reeking of tobacco, and hung all round with sporting and dramatic prints, was quite as likely a refuge for an unfledged medical student as for a person of the swagger and presence of Mr Felix Fastnet.
"No use to me," he explained, interpreting his young guest's thought, "except as a dog-kennel.

I live at the club--breakfast, lunch, dinner-- everything; but I was so disgusted with the performance of that young cad to-night that I even prefer the dog-kennel.

Have a soda ?" Roger accepted, and sat down by the fire.
"Yes," growled on his host; "I'm father of that club, and I don't like to see it degraded.

If he'd gone for you, and kicked you into the street, I shouldn't have lifted a finger to stop him.

He could have made hay of you if I'd chosen, a sickly youngster like you." "I wonder he did not," said Roger; "but, Mr Fastnet, now I have met you, I want to ask you a question." "Ask away." "My name, as you know, is Roger Ingleton.