to Trent’s study in a sort of dream.
A hoarse roar answered his feeble tap. There was no doubt about Trent being in. Inspection revealed the fact that the prefect was working and evidently ill-attuned to conversation. He wore a haggard look and his eye, as it caught that of the collector of statements, was dangerous.
“Well?” said Trent, scowling murderously.
Pillingshot’s legs felt perfectly boneless.
“
Pillingshot yammered.
“
The roar shook the window, and Pillingshot’s presence of mind deserted him altogether.
“Have you bagged a sovereign?” he asked.
There was an awful silence, during which the detective, his limbs suddenly becoming active again, banged the door, and shot off down the passage.
He re-entered Scott’s study at the double.
“Well?” said Scott. “What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Get out your notebook, and put down, under the heading ‘Trent’: ‘Suspicious silence.’ A very bad lot, Trent. Keep him under constant espionage. It’s a clue. Work on it.”
Pillingshot made a note of the silence, but later on, when he and the prefect met in the dormitory, felt inclined to erase it. For silence was the last epithet one would have applied to Trent on that occasion. As he crawled painfully into bed Pillingshot became more than ever convinced that the path of the amateur detective was a thorny one.
This conviction deepened next day.
Scott’s help was possibly well meant, but it was certainly inconvenient. His theories were of the brilliant, dashing order, and Pillingshot could never be certain who and in what rank of life the next suspect would be. He spent that afternoon shadowing the Greaser (the combination of boot-boy and butler who did the odd jobs about the school house), and in the evening seemed likely to be about to move in the very highest circles. This was when Scott remarked in a dreamy voice, “You know, I’m told the old man has been spending a good lot of money lately….”
To which the burden of Pillingshot’s reply was that he would do anything in reason, but he was blowed if he was going to cross-examine the headmaster.
“It seems to me,” said Scott sadly, “that you don’t
It was on the following morning, after breakfast, that the close observer might have noticed a change in the detective’s demeanour. He no longer looked as if he were weighed down by a secret sorrow. His manner was even jaunty.
Scott noticed it.
“What’s up?” he inquired. “Got a clue?”
Pillingshot nodded.
“What is it? Let’s have a look.”
“Sh—h—h!” said Pillingshot mysteriously.
Scott’s interest was aroused. When his fag was making tea in the afternoon, he questioned him again.
“Out with it,” he said. “What’s the point of all this silent mystery business?”
“Sherlock Holmes never gave anything away.”
“Out with it.”
“Walls have ears,” said Pillingshot.
“So have you,” replied Scott crisply, “and I’ll smite them in half a second.”
Pillingshot sighed resignedly, and produced an envelope. From this he poured some dried mud.
“Here, steady on with my table-cloth,” said Scott. “What’s this?”
“Mud.”
“What about it?”
“Where do you think it came from?”
“How should I know? Road, I suppose.”
Pillingshot smiled faintly.
“Eighteen different kinds of mud about here,” he said patronisingly. “This is flower-bed mud from the house front-garden.”
“Well? What about it?”
“Sh—h—h!” said Pillingshot, and glided out of the room.
“Well?” asked Scott next day. “Clues pouring in all right?”
