“What are you waiting for?” whispered the bishop, as his companion lingered on the top step.
“Half a second,” said the headmaster in a muffled voice. “It may be in another pocket.”
“What?”
“My key.”
“Have you lost your key?”
“I believe I have.”
“Catsmeat,” said the bishop, with grave censure, “this is the last time I come out painting statues with you.”
“I must have dropped it somewhere.”
“What shall we do?”
“There’s just a chance the scullery window may be open.”
But the scullery window was not open. Careful, vigilant, and faithful to his trust, the butler, on retiring to rest, had fastened it and closed the shutters. They were locked out.
But it has been well said that it is the lessons which we learn in our boyhood days at school that prepare us for the problems of life in the larger world outside. Stealing back from the mists of the past, there came to the bishop a sudden memory.
“Catsmeat!”
“Hullo?”
“If you haven’t been mucking the place up with alterations and improvements, there should be a water-pipe round at the back, leading to one of the upstairs windows.”
Memory had not played him false. There, nestling in the ivy, was the pipe up and down which he had been wont to climb when, a pie-faced lad in the summer of ’86, he had broken out of this house in order to take nocturnal swims in the river.
“Up you go,” he said briefly.
The headmaster required no further urging. And presently the two were making good time up the side of the house.
It was just as they reached the window and just after the bishop had informed his old friend that, if he kicked him on the head again, he’d hear of it, that the window was suddenly flung open.
“Who’s that?” said a clear young voice.
The headmaster was frankly taken aback. Dim though the light was, he could see that the man leaning out of the window was poising in readiness a very nasty-looking golf-club: and his first impulse was to reveal his identity and so clear himself of the suspicion of being the marauder for whom he gathered the other had mistaken him. Then there presented themselves to him certain objections to revealing his identity, and he hung there in silence, unable to think of a suitable next move.
The bishop was a man of readier resource.
“Tell him we’re a couple of cats belonging to the cook,” he whispered.
It was painful for one of the headmaster’s scrupulous rectitude and honesty to stoop to such a falsehood, but it seemed the only course to pursue.
“It’s all right,” he said, forcing a note of easy geniality into his voice. “We’re a couple of cats.”
“Cat-burglars?”
“No. Just ordinary cats.”
“Belonging to the cook,” prompted the bishop from below.
“Belonging to the cook,” added the headmaster.
“I see,” said the man at the window. “Well, in that case, right ho!”
He stood aside to allow them to enter. The bishop, an artist at heart, mewed gratefully as he passed, to add verisimilitude to the deception: and then made for his bedroom, accompanied by the headmaster. The episode was apparently closed.
Nevertheless, the headmaster was disturbed by a certain uneasiness.
“Do you suppose he thought we really were cats?” he asked anxiously.
“I am not sure,” said the bishop. “But I think we deceived him by the nonchalance of our demeanour.”
“Yes, I think we did. Who was he?”
“My secretary. The young fellow I was speaking of, who lent us that capital tonic.”
“Oh, then that’s all right. He wouldn’t give you away.”
“No. And there is nothing else that can possibly lead to our being suspected. We left no clue whatsoever.”
“All the same,” said the headmaster thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to wonder whether it was in the best sense of the word judicious to have painted that statue.”
“Somebody had to,” said the bishop stoutly.
“Yes, that’s true,” said the headmaster, brightening.
The bishop slept late on the following morning, and partook of his frugal breakfast in bed. The day, which so often brings remorse, brought none to him. Something attempted, something done had earned a night’s repose: and he had no regrets—except that, now that it was all over, he was not sure that blue paint would not have been more effective. However, his old friend had pleaded so strongly for the pink that it would have been difficult for himself, as a guest, to override the wishes of his host. Still, blue would undoubtedly have been very striking.
There was a knock on the door, and Augustine entered.
“Morning, Bish.”
“Good morning, Mulliner,” said the bishop affably. “I have lain somewhat late today.”
“I say, Bish,” asked Augustine, a little anxiously. “Did you take a very big dose of the Buck-U-Uppo last night?”
“Big? No. As I recollect, quite small. Barely two ordinary wineglasses full.”
“Great Scott!”
“Why do you ask, my dear fellow?”
“Oh, nothing. No particular reason. I just thought your manner seemed a little strange on the water-pipe, that’s all.”
The bishop was conscious of a touch of chagrin.
“Then you saw through our—er—innocent deception?”
“Yes.”
“I had been taking a little stroll with the headmaster,” explained the bishop, “and he had mislaid his key. How beautiful is Nature at night, Mulliner! The dark, fathomless skies, the little winds that seem to whisper secrets in one’s ear, the scent of growing things.”
“Yes,” said Augustine. He paused. “Rather a row on this morning. Somebody appears to have painted Lord Hemel of Hempstead’s statue last night.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, well,” said the bishop tolerantly, “boys will be boys.”
“It’s a most mysterious business.”
“No doubt, no doubt. But, after all, Mulliner, is not all Life a mystery?”
“And what makes it still more mysterious is that they found your shovel-hat on the statue’s head.”
The bishop started up.
“What!”
“Absolutely.”
“Mulliner,” said the bishop, “leave me. I have one or two matters on which I wish to meditate.”
He dressed hastily, his numbed
