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Updated: June 9, 2025
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.
Daubeny, when examined, exhibited the same suspicious emotion that Berkeley had shown; and Hanson, Simms, and Green behaved in a precisely similar manner. "This," said Scott, "somewhat complicates the case. We must have further clues. You'd better pop off now, Pillingshot. I've got a Latin Prose to do. Bring me reports of your progress daily, and don't overlook the importance of trifles.
Then he closed the door and returned to the table, where he took from his waistcoat-pocket a used match. Scott turned it over inquiringly. "What's the idea of this?" "A clue," said Pillingshot. "See anything queer about it? See that rummy brown stain on it?" "Yes." "Blood!" snorted Pillingshot. "What's the good of blood? There's been no murder." Pillingshot looked serious.
"Get out your note-book, 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.
Pillingshot wriggled uncomfortably. "Left your music at home?" said Scott. "Never mind, then. Perhaps it's all for the best. What are those? Still muffins? Hand me another. After all, one must keep one's strength up. You can have one if you like." Pillingshot's face brightened. He became more affable. He chatted. "There's rather a row on downstairs," he said. "In the junior day-room."
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