Mike

Mr. Downing was not listening.  He was in a state of suppressed excitement and exultation which made it hard for him to attend to his colleague’s slow utterances.  He had a clue!  Now that the search had narrowed itself down to Outwood’s house, the rest was comparatively easy.  Perhaps Sergeant Collard had actually recognised the boy.  Or reflection he dismissed this as unlikely, for the sergeant would scarcely have kept a thing like that to himself; but he might very well have seen more of him than he, Downing, had seen.  It was only with an effort that he could keep himself from rushing to the sergeant then and there, and leaving the house lunch to look after itself.  He resolved to go the moment that meal was at an end.

Sunday lunch at a public-school house is probably one of the longest functions in existence.  It drags its slow length along like a languid snake, but it finishes in time.  In due course Mr. Downing, after sitting still and eyeing with acute dislike everybody who asked for a second helping, found himself at liberty.

Regardless of the claims of digestion, he rushed forth on the trail.

Sergeant Collard lived with his wife and a family of unknown dimensions in the lodge at the school front gate.  Dinner was just over when Mr. Downing arrived, as a blind man could have told.

The sergeant received his visitor with dignity, ejecting the family, who were torpid after roast beef and resented having to move, in order to ensure privacy.

Having requested his host to smoke, which the latter was about to do unasked, Mr. Downing stated his case.

“Mr. Outwood,” he said, “tells me that last night, sergeant, you saw a boy endeavouring to enter his house.”

The sergeant blew a cloud of smoke.  “Oo-oo-oo, yer,” he said; “I did, sir—­spotted ‘im, I did.  Feeflee good at spottin’, I am, sir.  Dook of Connaught, he used to say, ‘’Ere comes Sergeant Collard,’ he used to say, ‘’e’s feeflee good at spottin’.’”

“What did you do?”

“Do?  Oo-oo-oo!  I shouts ’Oo-oo-oo yer, yer young monkey, what yer doin’ there?’”

“Yes?”

“But ’e was off in a flash, and I doubles after ’im prompt.”

“But you didn’t catch him?”

“No, sir,” admitted the sergeant reluctantly.

“Did you catch sight of his face, sergeant?”

“No, sir, ‘e was doublin’ away in the opposite direction.”

“Did you notice anything at all about his appearance?”

“’E was a long young chap, sir, with a pair of legs on him—­feeflee fast ’e run, sir.  Oo-oo-oo, feeflee!”

“You noticed nothing else?”

“’E wasn’t wearing no cap of any sort, sir.”

“Ah!”

“Bare-’eaded, sir,” added the sergeant, rubbing the point in.

“It was undoubtedly the same boy, undoubtedly!  I wish you could have caught a glimpse of his face, sergeant.”

“So do I, sir.”

“You would not be able to recognise him again if you saw him, you think?”

“Oo-oo-oo!  Wouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir, ’cos yer see, I’m feeflee good at spottin’, but it was a dark night.”

Mr. Downing rose to go.

“Well,” he said, “the search is now considerably narrowed down, considerably!  It is certain that the boy was one of the boys in Mr. Outwood’s house.”

“Young monkeys!” interjected the sergeant helpfully.

“Good-afternoon, sergeant.”

“Good-afternoon to you, sir.”

“Pray do not move, sergeant.”

The sergeant had not shown the slightest inclination of doing anything of the kind.

“I will find my way out.  Very hot to-day, is it not?”

“Feeflee warm, sir; weather’s goin’ to break—­workin’ up for thunder.”

“I hope not.  The school plays the M.C.C. on Wednesday, and it would be a pity if rain were to spoil our first fixture with them.  Good afternoon.”

And Mr. Downing went out into the baking sunlight, while Sergeant Collard, having requested Mrs. Collard to take the children out for a walk at once, and furthermore to give young Ernie a clip side of the ’ead, if he persisted in making so much noise, put a handkerchief over his face, rested his feet on the table, and slept the sleep of the just.

CHAPTER XLVIII THE SLEUTH-HOUND

For the Doctor Watsons of this world, as opposed to the Sherlock Holmeses, success in the province of detective work must always be, to a very large extent, the result of luck.  Sherlock Holmes can extract a clue from a wisp of straw or a flake of cigar-ash.  But Doctor Watson has got to have it taken out for him, and dusted, and exhibited clearly, with a label attached.

The average man is a Doctor Watson.  We are wont to scoff in a patronising manner at that humble follower of the great investigator, but, as a matter of fact, we should have been just as dull ourselves.  We should not even have risen to the modest level of a Scotland Yard Bungler.  We should simply have hung around, saying:

“My dear Holmes, how—?” and all the rest of it, just as the downtrodden medico did.