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Downing was working up for a brain-storm, when Fate once more intervened, this time in the shape of Riglett, a junior member of his house. Riglett slunk up in the shamefaced way peculiar to some boys, even when they have done nothing wrong, and, having capped Mr.
Somebody has upset a pot of paint on the floor." Riglett, walking delicately through dry places, extracted his bicycle from the rack, and presently departed to gladden the heart of his aunt, leaving Mr. Downing, his brain fizzing with the enthusiasm of the detective, to lock the door and resume his perambulation of the cricket field. Give Doctor Watson a fair start, and he is a demon at the game.
The air was full of the pungent scent. "Pah!" said Mr. Downing. Then suddenly, beneath the disguise of the mess, he saw the clue. A foot-mark! No less. A crimson foot-mark on the grey concrete! Riglett, who had been waiting patiently two yards away, now coughed plaintively. The sound recalled Mr. Downing to mundane matters. "Get your bicycle, Riglett," he said, "and be careful where you tread.
Riglett had an aunt resident about three miles from the school, whom he was accustomed to visit occasionally on Sunday afternoons during the term. He felt for his bunch of keys, and made his way to the shed, Riglett shambling behind at an interval of two yards. Mr. Downing unlocked the door, and there on the floor was the Clue! A clue that even Doctor Watson could not have overlooked. Mr.
Riglett had an aunt resident about three miles from the school, whom he was accustomed to visit occasionally on Sunday afternoons during the term. He felt for his bunch of keys, and made his way to the shed, Riglett shambling behind at an interval of two yards. Mr. Downing unlocked the door, and there on the floor was the Clue! A clue that even Dr. Watson could not have overlooked. Mr.
Riglett shuffled, stood first on his left foot, then on his right, blushed, and finally remarked, as if it were not so much a sound reason as a sort of feeble excuse for the low and blackguardly fact that he wanted his bicycle, that he had got leave for tea that afternoon. Then Mr. Downing remembered.
The air was full of the pungent scent. "Pah!" said Mr. Downing. Then suddenly, beneath the disguise of the mess, he saw the clue. A footmark! No less. A crimson footmark on the gray concrete! Riglett, who had been waiting patiently two yards away, now coughed plaintively. The sound recalled Mr. Downing to mundane matters. "Get your bicycle, Riglett," he said, "and be careful where you tread.
Riglett shuffled, stood first on his left foot, then on his right, blushed, and finally remarked, as if it were not so much a sound reason as a sort of feeble excuse for the low and blackguardly fact that he wanted his bicycle, that he had got leave for tea that afternoon. Then Mr. Downing remembered.
Downing was working up for a brainstorm when Fate once more intervened, this time in the shape of Riglett, a junior member of his house. Riglett slunk up in the shamefaced way peculiar to some boys, even when they have done nothing wrong, and, having "capped" Mr.
Somebody has upset a pot of paint on the floor." Riglett, walking delicately through dry places, extracted his bicycle from the rack, and presently departed to gladden the heart of his aunt, leaving Mr. Downing, his brain fizzing with the enthusiasm of the detective, to lock the door and resume his perambulation of the cricket field. Give Dr. Watson a fair start, and he is a demon at the game. Mr.
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