Barry said he would make an A.B. case of it.
After school he went to Milton's study, and found him still brooding over its departed glories.
“I say, Milton, can I speak to you for a second?”
“Hullo, Barry. Come in.”
Barry came in.
“I had forty-three photographs,” began Milton, without preamble. “All destroyed. And I've no money to buy any more. I had seventeen of Edna May.”
Barry, feeling that he was expected to say something, said, “By Jove! Really?”
“In various positions,” continued Milton. “All ruined.”
“Not really?” said Barry.
“There was one of Little Tich—”
But Barry felt unequal to playing the part of chorus any longer. It was all very thrilling, but, if Milton was going to run through the entire list of his destroyed photographs, life would be too short for conversation on any other topic.
“I say, Milton,” he said, “it was about that that I came. I'm sorry—”
Milton sat up.
“It wasn't you who did this, was it?”
“No, no,” said Barry, hastily.
“Oh, I thought from your saying you were sorry—”
“I was going to say I thought I could put you on the track of the chap who did do it—”
For the second time since the interview began Milton sat up.
“Go on,” he said.
“—But I'm sorry I can't give you the name of the fellow who told me about it.”
“That doesn't matter,” said Milton. “Tell me the name of the fellow who did it. That'll satisfy me.”
“I'm afraid I can't do that, either.”
“Have you any idea what you
“I can tell you something which may put you on the right track.”
“That'll do for a start. Well?”
“Well, the chap who told me—I'll call him A.; I'm going to make an A.B. case of it—was coming out of his study at about one o'clock in the morning—”
“What the deuce was he doing that for?”
“Because he wanted to go back to bed,” said Barry.
“About time, too. Well?”
“As he was going past your study, a white figure emerged—”
“I should strongly advise you, young Barry,” said Milton, gravely, “not to try and rot me in any way. You're a jolly good wing three-quarters, but you shouldn't presume on it. I'd slay the Old Man himself if he rotted me about this business.”
Barry was quite pained at this sceptical attitude in one whom he was going out of his way to assist.
“I'm not rotting,” he protested. “This is all quite true.”
“Well, go on. You were saying something about white figures emerging.”
“Not white figures. A white figure,” corrected Barry. “It came out of your study—”
“—And vanished through the wall?”
“It went into Rigby's dorm.,” said Barry, sulkily. It was maddening to have an exclusive bit of news treated in this way.
“Did it, by Jove!” said Milton, interested at last. “Are you sure the chap who told you wasn't pulling your leg? Who was it told you?”
“I promised him not to say.”
“Out with it, young Barry.”
“I won't,” said Barry.
“You aren't going to tell me?”
“No.”
Milton gave up the point with much cheerfulness. He liked Barry, and he realised that he had no right to try and make him break his promise.
“That's all right,” he said. “Thanks very much, Barry. This may be useful.”
