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"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.
You had better get some more tomorrow. 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.
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 groundsman came out in his shirt sleeves, blinking as if he had just waked 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?"
"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 spilled.
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.
Half an hour later when he had affixed a new tire to the wheel, he and Milly sat, warmed and comforted before blazing logs, waiting for her clothes to dry out. "I know I look a fright," she mourned. "That Mrs. Markby must buy her dresses by the pound."
No. 1 was, at one time, occupied by Sir Richard Markby, Judge of the High Court, during part of his stay in Calcutta, at another by a chummery consisting of Jim Henderson, Keith Douglas and Charles Brock, and afterwards it was let out as a boarding house to various people.
I spoke to her with the smooth side of my tongue uppermost, as a big, rough chap generally does to a girl of that sort, if there's anything decent about him. "My father was Captain Markby," she said, and I liked the way she spoke. "He died at sea, and they sold his things here. I want to find something of his, and I thought that perhaps you might have bought it?"
George Markby, the name was; and that's poker-work on it, too. He sickened of a fever over at Rotterdam and died at sea; and they sold off his things to send the money to his widow. I gave a sovereign for it. There's a tray inside with a lock-up till. Keys all complete. Ought to fetch thirty-five shillings." "As much as that?" I said.
"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 shipshape 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?"
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