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In that case the foot-mark might

be his.

 

Note one: Interview the ground-man on this point.

 

In the second place Adair might have upset the tin and trodden in its

contents when he went to get his bicycle in order to fetch the doctor

for the suffering MacPhee. This was the more probable of the two

contingencies, for it would have been dark in the shed when Adair went

into it.

 

Note two Interview Adair as to whether he found, on returning to

the house, that there was paint on his boots.

 

Things were moving.

 

*

 

He resolved to take Adair first. He could get the ground-man’s address

from him.

 

Passing by the trees under whose shade Mike and Psmith and Dunster had

watched the match on the previous day, he came upon the Head of his

house in a deck-chair reading a book. A summer Sunday afternoon is the

time for reading in deck-chairs.

 

“Oh, Adair,” he said. “No, don’t get up. I merely wished to ask you if

you found any paint on your boots when you returned to the house last

night?”

 

“Paint, sir?” Adair was plainly puzzled. His book had been

interesting, and had driven the Sammy incident out of his head.

 

“I see somebody has spilt some paint on the floor of the bicycle shed.

You did not do that, I suppose, when you went to fetch your bicycle?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“It is spilt all over the floor. I wondered whether you had happened

to tread in it. But you say you found no paint on your boots this

morning?”

 

“No, sir, my bicycle is always quite near the door of the shed. I

didn’t go into the shed at all.”

 

“I see. Quite so. Thank you, Adair. Oh, by the way, Adair, where does

Markby live?”

 

“I forget the name of his cottage, sir, but I could show you in a

second. It’s one of those cottages just past the school gates, on the

right as you turn out into the road. There are three in a row. His is

the first you come to. There’s a barn just before you get to them.”

 

“Thank you. I shall be able to find them. I should like to speak to

Markby for a moment on a small matter.”

 

A sharp walk took him to the cottages Adair had mentioned. He

rapped at the door of the first, and the ground-man came out in

his shirt-sleeves, blinking as if he had just woke up, as was

indeed the case.

 

“Oh, Markby!”

 

“Sir?”

 

“You remember that you were painting the scoring-box in the pavilion

last night after the match?”

 

“Yes, sir. It wanted a lick of paint bad. The young gentlemen will

scramble about and get through the window. Makes it look shabby, sir.

So I thought I’d better give it a coating so as to look ship-shape

when the Marylebone come down.”

 

“Just so. An excellent idea. Tell me, Markby, what did you do with the

pot of paint when you had finished?”

 

“Put it in the bicycle shed, sir.”

 

“On the floor?”

 

“On the floor, sir? No. On the shelf at the far end, with the can of

whitening what I use for marking out the wickets, sir.”

 

“Of course, yes. Quite so. Just as I thought.”

 

“Do you want it, sir?”

 

“No, thank you, Markby, no, thank you. The fact is, somebody who had

no business to do so has moved the pot of paint from the shelf to the

floor, with the result that it has been kicked over, and spilt. You

had better get some more to-morrow. Thank you, Markby. That is all I

wished to know.”

 

Mr. Downing walked back to the school thoroughly excited. He was hot

on the scent now. The only other possible theories had been tested and

successfully exploded. The thing had become simple to a degree. All he

had to do was to go to Mr. Outwood’s house—the idea of searching a

fellow-master’s house did not appear to him at all a delicate task;

somehow one grew unconsciously to feel that Mr. Outwood did not really

exist as a man capable of resenting liberties—find the paint-splashed

boot, ascertain its owner, and denounce him to the headmaster.

Picture, Blue Fire and “God Save the King” by the full strength of the

company. There could be no doubt that a paint-splashed boot must be in

Mr. Outwood’s house somewhere. A boy cannot tread in a pool of paint

without showing some signs of having done so. It was Sunday, too, so

that the boot would not yet have been cleaned. Yoicks! Also Tally-ho!

This really was beginning to be something like business.

 

Regardless of the heat, the sleuth-hound hurried across to Outwood’s

as fast as he could walk.

CHAPTER XLIX

A CHECK

 

The only two members of the house not out in the grounds when he

arrived were Mike and Psmith. They were standing on the gravel drive

in front of the boys’ entrance. Mike had a deck-chair in one hand and

a book in the other. Psmith—for even the greatest minds will

sometimes unbend—was playing diabolo. That is to say, he was trying

without success to raise the spool from the ground.

 

“There’s a kid in France,” said Mike disparagingly, as the bobbin

rolled off the string for the fourth time, “who can do it three

thousand seven hundred and something times.”

 

Psmith smoothed a crease out of his waistcoat and tried again. He had

just succeeded in getting the thing to spin when Mr. Downing arrived.

The sound of his footsteps disturbed Psmith and brought the effort to

nothing.

 

“Enough of this spoolery,” said he, flinging the sticks through the

open window of the senior day-room. “I was an ass ever to try it. The

philosophical mind needs complete repose in its hours of leisure.

Hullo!”

 

He stared after the sleuth-hound, who had just entered the house.

 

“What the dickens,” said Mike, “does he mean by barging in as if he’d

bought the place?”

 

“Comrade Downing looks pleased with himself. What brings him round in

this direction, I wonder! Still, no matter. The few articles which he

may sneak from our study are of inconsiderable value. He is welcome to

them. Do you feel inclined to wait awhile till I have fetched a chair

and book?”

 

“I’ll be going on. I shall be under the trees at the far end of the

ground.”

 

“‘Tis well. I will be with you in about two ticks.”

 

Mike walked on towards the field, and Psmith, strolling upstairs to

fetch his novel, found Mr. Downing standing in the passage with the

air of one who has lost his bearings.

 

“A warm afternoon, sir,” murmured Psmith courteously, as he passed.

 

“Er—Smith!”

 

“Sir?”

 

“I—er—wish to go round the dormitories.”

 

It was Psmith’s guiding rule in life never to be surprised at

anything, so he merely inclined his head gracefully, and said nothing.

 

“I should be glad if you would fetch the keys and show me where the

rooms are.”

 

“With acute pleasure, sir,” said Psmith. “Or shall I fetch Mr.

Outwood, sir?”

 

“Do as I tell you, Smith,” snapped Mr. Downing.

 

Psmith said no more, but went down to the matron’s room. The matron

being out, he abstracted the bunch of keys from her table and rejoined

the master.

 

“Shall I lead the way, sir?” he asked.

 

Mr. Downing nodded.

 

“Here, sir,” said Psmith, opening a door, “we have Barnes’ dormitory.

An airy room, constructed on the soundest hygienic principles. Each

boy, I understand, has quite a considerable number of cubic feet of

air all to himself. It is Mr. Outwood’s boast that no boy has ever

asked for a cubic foot of air in vain. He argues justly–-”

 

He broke off abruptly and began to watch the other’s manoeuvres in

silence. Mr. Downing was peering rapidly beneath each bed in turn.

 

“Are you looking for Barnes, sir?” inquired Psmith politely. “I think

he’s out in the field.”

 

Mr. Downing rose, having examined the last bed, crimson in the face

with the exercise.

 

“Show me the next dormitory, Smith,” he said, panting slightly.

 

“This,” said Psmith, opening the next door and sinking his voice to an

awed whisper, “is where I sleep!”

 

Mr. Downing glanced swiftly beneath the three beds. “Excuse me, sir,”

said Psmith, “but are we chasing anything?”

 

“Be good enough, Smith,” said Mr. Downing with asperity, “to keep your

remarks to yourself.”

 

“I was only wondering, sir. Shall I show you the next in order?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

They moved on up the passage.

 

Drawing blank at the last dormitory, Mr. Downing paused, baffled.

Psmith waited patiently by. An idea struck the master.

 

“The studies, Smith,” he cried.

 

“Aha!” said Psmith. “I beg your pardon, sir. The observation escaped

me unawares. The frenzy of the chase is beginning to enter into my

blood. Here we have–-”

 

Mr. Downing stopped short.

 

“Is this impertinence studied, Smith?”

 

“Ferguson’s study, sir? No, sir. That’s further down the passage. This

is Barnes’.”

 

Mr. Downing looked at him closely. Psmith’s face was wooden in its

gravity. The master snorted suspiciously, then moved on.

 

“Whose is this?” he asked, rapping a door.

 

“This, sir, is mine and Jackson’s.”

 

“What! Have you a study? You are low down in the school for it.”

 

“I think, sir, that Mr. Outwood gave it us rather as a testimonial to

our general worth than to our proficiency in school-work.”

 

Mr. Downing raked the room with a keen eye. The absence of bars from

the window attracted his attention.

 

“Have you no bars to your windows here, such as there are in my

house?”

 

“There appears to be no bar, sir,” said Psmith, putting up his

eyeglass.

 

Mr Downing was leaning out of the window.

 

“A lovely view, is it not, sir?” said Psmith. “The trees, the field,

the distant hills–-”

 

Mr. Downing suddenly started. His eye had been caught by the water-pipe

at the side of the window. The boy whom Sergeant Collard had seen

climbing the pipe must have been making for this study.

 

He spun round and met Psmith’s blandly inquiring gaze. He looked at

Psmith carefully for a moment. No. The boy he had chased last night

had not been Psmith. That exquisite’s figure and general appearance

were unmistakable, even in the dusk.

 

“Whom did you say you shared this study with, Smith?”

 

“Jackson, sir. The cricketer.”

 

“Never mind about his cricket, Smith,” said Mr. Downing with

irritation.

 

“No, sir.”

 

“He is the only other occupant of the room?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Nobody else comes into it?”

 

“If they do, they go out extremely quickly, sir.”

 

“Ah! Thank you, Smith.”

 

“Not at all, sir.”

 

Mr. Downing pondered. Jackson! The boy bore him a grudge. The boy was

precisely the sort of boy to revenge himself by painting the dog

Sammy. And, gadzooks! The boy whom he had pursued last night had been

just about Jackson’s size and build!

 

Mr. Downing was as firmly convinced at that moment that Mike’s had

been the hand to wield the paint-brush as he had ever been of anything

in his life.

 

“Smith!” he said excitedly.

 

“On the spot, sir,” said Psmith affably.

 

“Where are Jackson’s boots?”

 

There are moments when the giddy excitement of being right on the

trail causes the amateur (or Watsonian) detective

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