CHAPTER XI

INSPECTOR DORSET

‘Hark, hark! Bow-wow. The watch-dogs bark: Bow-wow.’

――_Shakespeare._

Ann had followed Grif a little way down the road, but she soon turned aside to hunt for Pouncer on her own account. Not that she had much hope of finding him: it was indeed more from a sense of duty than anything else that she now and then called aloud, “Bouncer! Bouncer!”

But no Bouncer replied, and Ann presently returned to the house.

She did not think of telling grandpapa, principally because they had all received strict injunctions from Aunt Caroline that grandpapa’s study was never to be entered except by special invitation: and then, she did not really feel anxious herself; Bouncer would be sure to turn up; for Grif had not told her of his suspicion, and Ann never for a moment connected the missing dog with her Lascar of the morning.

So when, towards teatime, the boys returned, she was in the midst of giving a Sunday School lesson to a class of inattentive dolls and a stuffed elephant. She broke off a sensational and circumstantial account of Joseph’s adventures to ask if they had seen Grif.

“No; and we didn’t see the circus either, though we went ever so far. They must have taken some other road.”

It was Jim who replied, while he gazed down at his sister’s dolls with a sneaking desire to join in the game.

“Grif went out to look for Bouncer. He’s been lost since dinner-time.”

“Who has?... That’s my elephant, you know.”

“Oh, Jim! it isn’t; you gave it to me your very self!”

“Who’s lost?” Edward took up.

“Bouncer. We all looked for him――Bridget and Hannah and me and Grif. And then Grif ran away down the drive, and I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“He’s probably having a singing-lesson.... What are you going to sleep for, Dorset?”

Palmer, seated with his back against the tree under which Ann’s Sunday School class also reposed, made no reply. An idea had just occurred to him, and his finger-tips were joined. He knew that from this sign Edward ought to be able to see that he was thinking deeply, therefore there was no need for words. As a matter of fact, the same suspicion that had flashed on Grif had occurred to Palmer, though their methods of following it up were characteristically different, and Palmer’s deductions went a good deal further. He did not mention to Edward what these deductions were; he made no attempt to contradict the singing-lesson fallacy; his chum, like Doctor Watson or Bunny, would be informed when a plan of action had been properly matured, but in the meantime Palmer must have a free field.

Presently he dropped his attitude of passive dreamer for that of man of action. He sprang to his feet. “I want you to lend me fifteen shillings and your bicycle.”

Edward stared.

To be quite truthful, the first portion of Palmer’s request had been thrown in purely for the sake of dramatic effect. He knew just as well as Ann and Jim and everybody else did that Edward had not got fifteen shillings, nor five shillings, nor, probably, even one shilling. Grif was the only one who ever had any money, and that was simply because he usually forgot to spend it till he was thoughtfully reminded by his brothers and sisters that a suitable occasion had arisen. Therefore Palmer did not repeat his demand, but retired, leaving his audience duly impressed, and raised the necessary sum in the kitchen.

“It’s only for three days,” he assured the good-natured Hannah, who would have been quite content to wait for repayment till the day of judgment. But it eased Palmer’s conscience to set himself this strict time limit. He knew that to borrow money from an obliging cook was not at all the proper thing for a gentleman to do, and only the direst necessity, and the fact that he must be in possession of it before six o’clock, would have caused him to take such a step. A minute or two later the little group on the lawn saw him scorching down the avenue at full speed on Edward’s bicycle, and Ann and Jim began to speculate wildly as to what he could be going to do. Edward, on the other hand, felt sulky and ill-used. Even prolonged experience of it could never reconcile him to Palmer’s love of secrecy.

The problem was interrupted by the return of Aunt Caroline and Barbara. Ann and Jim raced to meet them, screaming out the news about Pouncer and Grif, and adding a rapid account of the bewildering behaviour of Palmer.

“They weren’t at the Batts’,” said Aunt Caroline, who, like Edward and the others, appeared to take it for granted that Pouncer and his master were together. “We’ve just come from there. I do wish that child had some rudimentary sense of time. There’s not a bit of use waiting tea for him. He’s just as likely to come back at eight as within the next half hour.”

This was perfectly true, but to-night Palmer also was late for tea, and when he entered the room it was with an air of reserve which a lively cross-examination carried on by Ann and Jim quite failed to break down.

When eight o’clock came, and still Grif had not appeared, Aunt Caroline began to grow uneasy. Miss Johnson, who considered that she had been most unjustly snubbed for certain remarks made on the last occasion of his absence, carefully refrained from commenting on the matter, but Aunt Caroline decided that she had better tell grandpapa.

“He really must stop this kind of thing,” said the canon, mildly. “I’ll just stroll over to the church and see if he’s there, and if he’s not I’ll go on to Bradley’s lodgings. I’ll have to tell Bradley that he’s not to keep him so late, though I’m afraid he’s hardly more reliable than Grif himself.”

“And if he isn’t there,” said Aunt Caroline, “what will you do?”

“I suppose I’ll come home without him. I know, dear, it doesn’t sound brilliant, but what else is there for it? We can hardly send poor Drummond out again to scour the country. After all, nothing very much can happen to him; and surely when it begins to get dark he’ll be reminded that tea is at six.”

“But perhaps he didn’t find Pouncer, and it may be that that’s keeping him.”

“Well, I’ll go to the church in any case.”

At a quarter to nine, however, the canon returned alone. “Has he come back?” were his first words, and Aunt Caroline’s disappointed face was sufficient answer to them. “Bradley says he hasn’t seen him since the day before yesterday. It’s rather provoking!”

Aunt Caroline looked worried. “We can’t allow this sort of thing to go on,” she declared. “If I only could be sure that he had just not bothered to come home I should be very angry.”

“Well, as you’re evidently not sure, I suppose you aren’t,” said the canon, lightly. “I don’t see how he could lose himself even if he wanted to. He must have discovered some new friends. I think I’ll go into the town and make inquiries.”

Aunt Caroline laid down her work. “If you wait a minute I’ll put on my hat and go with you.” Then, becoming aware of the presence of Palmer and Edward and Barbara, she added peremptorily, “And you children run off to bed at once!”

“It’s not Dorset’s and my time yet,” replied Edward, resenting the injustice that would deprive him of ten legitimate minutes.

“It’s always time to do what you’re told,” returned Aunt Caroline sharply, and Edward felt he had better say no more.

Meanwhile Palmer was ‘torn by conflicting emotions’――the desire to bring a carefully arranged plan to its brilliant conclusion and show all his cards in one dazzling surprise, and the guilty consciousness that he was withholding information which would certainly throw light on the matter in hand. The struggle was a brief one, and before Aunt Caroline had time to go upstairs for her hat he said, “I think Grif has gone after the circus.”

“The circus!” Aunt Caroline almost screamed. “What circus? You don’t mean to tell me that you knew all along he had run off with those horrible men?”

“I don’t know anything,” Palmer answered quietly.

But Aunt Caroline’s suspicions were now thoroughly aroused. “What made you think of it then?”

“Because he went out to look for Pouncer, and I think Pouncer was stolen by one of the circus men. Ann saw a strange man with earrings prowling about just before dinner.”

“Really, Palmer! you might have said all this at first, when you _knew_ how anxious we were! I think it’s too bad of you! Goodness only knows what may have happened to the child! I can’t imagine how you could be so stupid as to sit there dumb all the time, while we were racking our brains to think what had become of him! And you too, Edward! I’ll never be able to put the least confidence in either of you again.”

“_I_ knew nothing about it,” cried Edward, indignantly. “And Dorset’s only guessing, because Grif wasn’t at Mr. Bradley’s.”

“You both of you knew about that horrid man being here.”

“I knew what Ann told us, but I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Well, well,” the canon interrupted, “we’re only wasting time. If you’re coming, Caroline, you’d better get ready at once.”

* * * * *

“What did you keep so dark about it all for?” Edward asked his friend, when they were safe in the privacy of their own room. Jim, though he had determined to lie awake and listen for Grif’s return, was already sound asleep.

“Because I had a good reason for doing so,” Palmer answered dreamily.

“I don’t know what it was, then!” growled Edward. “Did you find out anything when you went off that time on the bike?”

Palmer shook his head. “I found out everything that I _have_ found out when I was sitting under the tree――sleeping, as you called it.”

But Edward was feeling rather sore at Palmer’s reticence, and, when he thought of the unfortunate Grif, other emotions, too, seemed to clamour for expression. “Well, I think it’s pretty rotten not saying something. You knew Grif was only a kid, and not even a kid who’s much good at looking after himself. Anything may happen to him if he gets in among those toughs, especially if they have stolen Pouncer.”

Palmer looked troubled. He wished himself, now, that he had spoken sooner.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, gazing out of the window. “I didn’t tell you, because they none of them ever do till the whole thing’s fixed up.”

“Who’s ‘_they_’?” asked Edward impatiently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I mean Sherlock Holmes never told Watson, and Raffles never told Bunny.”

Edward laughed unpleasantly.

“I suppose you think you’re like them, don’t you? Well, you aren’t, and never will be. And even if you were, I’m certainly not your Watson or your Bunny.”

These words, and still more the laugh which accompanied them, touched Palmer where he was most sensitive, and his cheeks flushed. “I _have_ a plan,” he said, “although you may talk. And I always intended you to be in it. I was going to tell you not to undress.”

“You needn’t bother: I’m not likely to till I know what’s happened. If they go out to look for Grif I’m going with them.”

“It won’t be necessary,” said Palmer, gloomily.

He went to a chest of drawers, and opening the lowest drawer pulled out a package hidden under sundry articles of clothing. He stripped off the paper.

“Where did you get that from?” Edward asked.

“I got it this afternoon. I saw it in the saddler’s shop last week. It’s a second-hand one, but it’s all right, and I know how to use it.” He eyed the revolver with a sort of melancholy joy.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Perhaps nothing:――it all depends.”

“Depends on what?”

Palmer was silent: he hated having to reveal his plans in this way. Then he said slowly: “In a little more than two hours from now I’ll introduce you to the man with the earrings.”

Edward’s jaw dropped. “Where?”

“Here. I am expecting him to-night.”

“But how――――”

“The man with the earrings is the man who stole Pouncer.”

“But how do you know he will come?” asked Edward, quickly growing sceptical as he recovered from his surprise.

“I can’t tell you any more at present: you will learn everything in good time. Only, I promise you he will be here. What’s more, I’m going to make things easy for him. As soon as the servants have gone to bed, and the house is locked up, I’m going to unlatch the pantry window. It would be rather a lark to see him cut out a pane of glass, but on the whole it’s better to make things as simple as possible.... And I’ve got this for _you_.” He dived again into the drawer, and brought out a life-preserver.

“But that’s grandpapa’s!”

“I know. I got it from his room when he was out at Mr. Bradley’s.”

Edward gripped it, and described two or three flourishes before bringing it down remorselessly upon the head of an imaginary burglar.

“You’ll be a great man, Dorset,” he whispered, “if this comes off. And I’ll take back what I said about Raffles.... Only――you don’t think anything will happen to Grif?”

“Nothing will happen to him, because, for one thing, he won’t find the circus. _We_ couldn’t find it, and he didn’t start till long afterwards. He may have got lost, but somebody will bring him home either to-night or to-morrow morning; and when he does come we’ll have Pouncer for him.”

Edward had suddenly grown thoughtful. “But suppose the other chap――the man with the earrings――has a revolver too?”

“He won’t get a chance to use it. That’s why I’m leaving a window open for him――a rather small window, at a fair height from the ground. When he’s half way through I’ll bag him.”

“I see. It sounds all right, but wouldn’t it be better to have Robert here――just in case of accidents.”

“We don’t require Robert. If we can’t do a simple job like this on our own, we’d better go to bed and lock the door and latch the windows.... While I keep him covered you’ll tie his hands. Then we’ll shut him into a room till the police turn up: or we can take him ourselves to the station.... In the meantime, while we’re waiting, we may as well read or something. We might have a game of bézique.”

All this dialogue had been carried on in an undertone, so as not to awaken Jim; and Edward, who had gone to the window, now whispered over his shoulder, “I believe I hear grandpapa and Aunt Caroline coming back.”

They both peeped out.

“Yes; here they are! I think I’ll slip down and see if there’s any news.”

“Don’t say a word about what we’re going to do,” Palmer warned him.

“Of course not. All the same, I think it’s a bit risky――supposing the fellow _should_ happen to turn up. I mean, if it came to the point, you couldn’t really fire at him.”

“I’m going to fire if it’s necessary,” said Palmer quietly, and his tone was so convincing that Edward felt uneasy.

“You’re a queer chap, Dorset,” he muttered. And it suddenly struck him that his whole relation with Palmer was queer; he who was a swell at games, and therefore, from any sensible and natural point of view, immensely Palmer’s superior. Their mutual positions should have been exactly reversed. There seemed indeed no reason whatever why Palmer’s will should always prevail, for he never blustered and very seldom got angry. Nor had Edward ever been particularly conscious that it _did_ prevail until this moment. He had a transitory sense of discouragement. Things were not as they ought to be, and he somehow felt that in his dealings with Palmer they never would be altered.

All this flitted through his mind as he glided quietly downstairs to make inquiries about Grif. When he returned Palmer was lying on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He did not even look round as Edward came in.

“They’ve found out where he went to,” Edward began excitedly. “He took a train, and they’ve telephoned to the police to look for him. Robert and another man have gone to search along the road. The circus hasn’t turned up at Rathcarragh, and the police think they must be camping out, though they don’t know where. They’ve promised to send word as soon as they hear anything. Grandpapa and Aunt Caroline aren’t going to bed at present. I shouldn’t be surprised if they sat up most of the night.”

These last words alone appeared to interest Palmer. “Dash it all! that will mess up _our_ plan!” he muttered, frowning. “It’s nearly eleven now. In about half an hour we’ll have to begin our watch, for there’s no good leaving anything to chance.”

“They’ll hear us if we go downstairs,” Edward said. “They’ll be listening for every sound.” He cast a tentative, sidelong glance at the recumbent Palmer, and, as that hero took no notice, went on more boldly, “I don’t know that there’s much in this plan of yours, Dorset. I dare say if we were to tell grandpapa he’d let us keep watch downstairs. If anybody _did_ come he’d go away when he saw we were ready for him.”

“We don’t want him to go away,” said Palmer, without altering his position, or even turning his head. “_I’m_ going out. You needn’t come if you don’t want to. But if you spoil the thing now by blabbing either to your grandfather or to Miss Annesley I’ll never tell you anything again as long as I live.”

“I don’t want to blab,” answered Edward angrily.

“I’m going out by the window,” Palmer continued. “I’ll use a rope. I could get down by the spout if it was necessary, but the other will be less trouble.”

“Where will you get a rope from?”

“There’s one under your bed. I thought we might want it.”

Edward peered under his bed and saw that there was indeed a coil of rope there. The whole thing seemed suddenly to grow more serious――too serious in fact――and in a state of not altogether pleasurable excitement he sat down to wait. As for Palmer, he appeared to have fallen asleep, and Edward’s incredulity was once more gaining the upper hand when he heard him say, “If you’re coming, put on your tennis-shoes. I’ll fix the rope.”

Edward obeyed, for he was not going to drop out, even if it meant a hand to hand tussle with the sinister person of the earrings, whose visage now, unaccountably, sprang up before his imagination, scowling, malevolent, the glare of murder in his eyes. “If he has a knife,” he whispered, “I’ll not be able to do anything. I don’t mind being shot, but the very thought of a knife makes me sick;――I can’t help it.”

“You won’t have to tackle him at all. You can stay in your hiding-place till I call you. If he has a knife I’ll very soon make him drop it. Put that cord in your pocket: it’s to tie his wrists with.”

Edward stuffed away the cord, and Palmer, noiselessly pushing up the window as far as it would go, climbed out on to the sill.

Edward watched him doubtfully. He wished he knew what was really passing in Dorset’s mind, but he had not the slightest idea. He would have felt very much more comfortable if he could have been sure that the whole thing was only bluff, but he was growing less and less certain of this every moment.

“Shut the window after you,” Palmer said. He knelt on the sill, and, catching the rope, lowered himself very quietly to the ground.

He stood there waiting while Edward, after closing the window as he had been told to do, followed him.

“Round by the back,” Palmer whispered, and they stole along, keeping in the shadow of the house.

They crossed the moonlit yard and passed the stables. “I’ll give you the tool-shed,” Palmer whispered. “You can’t possibly be seen if you’re inside it, and there’s a hole in the door you can look out through.”

“But it’s locked,” Edward objected feebly.

“I have the key,” Palmer replied, producing it as he spoke.

The tool-shed was merely a rough lean-to built against the wall, beyond which lay the wood; and it was through the wood that Palmer expected the burglar to come.

“Can’t we both be together?” Edward asked.

“If you like, though I don’t think it’s so good.”

This, nevertheless, was the plan they adopted, and Palmer closed the door, leaving it, as Edward noticed, unlatched. “We can sit on the roller and be perfectly comfortable. Better put this matting over it: it will make it softer and also warmer.”

He tried the door, pushing it gently backward and forward, but it made no sound. “I’ve oiled the hinges,” he explained, “so that it won’t squeak.... I don’t want you to move until I call you. Remember that――whatever you may see me doing. Probably I will shadow him when he is looking round. Of course he won’t try to get in once he spots the light, and it’s when he’s coming back that I’ll cop him. If they’re two of them I dare say I’ll have to let one go.... You needn’t be afraid. If I have to shoot I won’t miss. I know how to use these things, and I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Edward made no reply, and the vigil began.

But the idea that there might be two burglars――which was a new one so far as Edward was concerned, and horribly plausible――was anything but reassuring. He wondered when Dorset would consider they had done their duty. He could not help believing now that his chum was acting on some positive information, and he wished the whole thing were well over, or that they had Robert and a policeman with them. Through everything he felt a strong admiration for his fellow-watcher. He recognized quite clearly that he was not so brave as Palmer was: all illusions on that score had dissolved like smoke. The only thing left for him to do was to prevent Dorset himself from guessing this, and Edward felt he would die in that attempt. Where his friend led he would follow, even should the very marrow be frozen in his bones....

* * * * *

Surely it must be nearly morning! Surely Palmer must have fallen asleep! He hoped that grandpapa had not gone to bed, for somehow there was comfort in the thought of a friendly light burning not so far away. Then a horrible idea occurred to him. Suppose the burglars had been watching all the time and knew they were hidden in the shed: suppose, instead of passing the door, they suddenly crept in upon them in the dark, and with a knife. That wretched knife! Edward shivered and began mournfully to consider which part of his body he should prefer to be stabbed in. Not in the back:――anywhere, he thought, rather than in the back. But presently, like a pendulum, his reflections swung again towards hopefulness. If a burglar had been coming he would have arrived before this. He heard a cock crow in the distance, and the sound was infinitely welcome. He could have blessed that bird. Doubtless, like the Ancient Mariner, he _did_ bless it unawares. The cock crowed three or four times, and then, as no other cock replied, relapsed into silence. Edward decided that he would count up to five hundred slowly, and then suggest that they should return to their room.

He had got as far as a hundred and seventy-nine when he felt a hand pressed down on his knee, and started violently. It was far too dark to see anything, but he felt Palmer’s lips brush against his ear, and he heard the whispered words, “Somebody is coming through the wood.”

Edward’s heart began to thump so vigorously that he was afraid Palmer would hear it. That queer, hissing noise, too, must be his breathing! He stopped it at once. Somebody _was_ coming; somebody was quite close to the wall. It was dreadful! A faint scuffling sound told him the wall was being climbed. And all the time he felt Palmer’s hand gripping his leg firmly, as if to keep him still.

But the sounds at the wall had ceased. There was a longish pause, and then he became aware of voices whispering――of one voice at any rate. There followed another silence.

Edward felt that Palmer’s hand had been withdrawn, and the next thing he noticed was the door of the shed slowly and noiselessly opening. He could see the thin streak of moonshine widening, he could make out Palmer’s form as he stood peering out. Next moment he was alone in the shed.

Edward stood up. He seemed for the first time to realize that Palmer was running into great danger, and with that consciousness a new feeling dawned, a feeling that somehow passed through his blood like a warming, reviving cordial. He too rose and slipped out into the doorway, keeping in the blackness of the shadow. There was nothing to be seen. The man, if there was a man, had disappeared, and Palmer had disappeared also. Edward waited and watched and listened, his life-preserver stoutly gripped and ready for instant application.

And then, all at once, the thing happened. The two figures were clearly before him in the moonlight. There was an oath from the man, followed by Palmer’s voice: “Put up your hands and stand still, or I’ll let you have it.”

The man obeyed, and Edward was about to rush out to tie him up when he saw him make a sudden bound, striking at Palmer with a sidelong sweep of his arm. Palmer leaped back and the man ran for the wall, over which a head now appeared, shouting hoarsely, “Come on, George! It’s only a kid!”

“No you don’t,” sang out Palmer, rushing in pursuit. “I’m damned if you do!”

There was a flash and a report, and George yelled: then he slipped on the damp grass and went down. Palmer _had_ fired! Edward’s brain blazed with excitement, as if a thousand rockets had shot up within it. He rushed out of his hiding-place just as George scrambled to his feet. “He’s got me,” George muttered plaintively, taking another step forward.

But Palmer was close behind him. “If you don’t stop, I’ll give it to you again, and this time through the body.”

A dull crashing of breaking branches announced a hasty retreat on the other side of the wall, and George, forsaken, stood still, whining out a rapid string of entreaties: “Lemme go an’ I’ll say nothin’ about what you’ve done. I could get you five years for this, young fella. You’ve no call to go shootin’ a man that’s not done any harm――only a bit of trespassin’.”

“Tie his wrists, Weston. Hold your hands out, my man, we’re going to jolly well tie you up, and then take you to the house. There are some questions we want to ask you, and we can talk more comfortably inside.”

The captive redoubled his entreaties, for, like the others, he had heard the sound of a door opening, and of approaching footsteps. “Lemme go: I’m bleedin’ to death,” he begged. “An’ I’ll bring back the dog in the mornin’. It wasn’t me took him, but I’ll bring him back, misther. I haven’t done nothin’, an’ you’ve had your plug at me.”

“Are his hands tied, Weston?”

“Yes,” answered Edward.

“Who’s there?” called out the canon nervously. “What’s all this? Edward――Palmer――what are you doing here, and who is this man?”

“They’re afther shootin’ me, your riverence, that’s what they’ve done,” George began to whimper. “Just all along a’ me havin’ a dhrop a’ drink in me, an’ comin’ over the wall. This young fella, he whips out a revolver, an’ he has me desthroyed. I’ve a boot full a’ blood already. But I don’t want to make trouble. Just tell them to let me go quiet an’ you’ll hear no more from _me_.”

“It’s the man who stole Pouncer,” said Palmer. “His name is George. He stole Pouncer to get him out of the way, so that he might break into the house. He came over the wall from the wood and I followed him; but as soon as he saw the light he thought better of it, and tried to get away.”

“Come into the house,” said the canon. “If you have been shot the wound will have to be seen to.”

“No, yer riverence. I’ll do that myself. Just you let me go quiet.”

“Come on,” said the canon. “I suppose you can walk?”

George muttered something, but he began to limp across the yard, Palmer, still keeping him covered, following in the rear. In this order they entered the house, where Aunt Caroline stood waiting for them in some alarm.

“You’d better get warm water and bandages, Caroline,” her father said. “Our friend here has been winged, I’m afraid.”

In the kitchen the patient was examined. There was only a flesh wound, and that not a very serious one, the bullet having passed clean through his leg, fortunately without cutting an artery. Palmer himself bathed it and tied it up with great neatness.

“And now,” said the canon, “you’d better give an account of yourself. It was you who stole the dog, was it?”

“You’ll not give me in charge, yer riverence? The dog’s safe, an’ I’ve bin punished enough. You’ll get him back in the mornin’.”

“And with the dog out of the way you were going to rob the house?”

“No, yer riverence,” cried George indignantly. “I never thought of it. I’ll own up about the dog. But I’m tellin’ you the God’s truth, that was all we――――”

“What brought you back then?”

“We come back because of the dhrink, and thinkin’ there might be somethin’ to pick up about the yard. It was the dhrink done it. If you’ll not set the police on me, I’ll bring back the dog an’ never throuble you again.”

“Come now, tell the truth; and remember if I catch you lying I _will_ give you in charge.”

“That’s the thruth, yer riverence. It was only afther the dog was away we thought a’ comin’ back, and then just along a’ the dhrink. Sure, if we’d wanted to break into the house we wouldn’t a’ kept the dog as evidence; we’d a’ poisoned him the night we come.”

“That would certainly have been more intelligent, but I don’t know that I’ve any reason to think you _are_ intelligent, George. And perhaps you knew the dog slept in the house, which would have made poisoning impossible.”

“Well, that’s the God’s thruth, yer riverence. God――――”

“Answer my questions,” the canon interrupted, “and stop blaspheming. You belong to the travelling circus that was here, don’t you?”

“Yes, yer riverence. If you saw the show, I’m Prairie Dick that does the riding act. An’ now with this leg――――”

“Where is the circus?”

“About five mile away, yer riverence.”

“When were you with it last?”

“About three o’clock, yer riverence.”

“And do you know that a little boy out of this house is missing, and that I have reason to believe he followed the circus to try to get his dog back again? One of you was seen prowling about here shortly before the dog disappeared.”

“I haven’t seen the boy, yer riverence. But if he did get to the circus he’ll have come to no harm. They wouldn’t touch a hair of him, so they wouldn’t.”

“I hope not. The police are out looking for him now; I’m expecting word every minute. Do you see all the trouble you’ve brought about?”

“I’m very sorry, yer riverence; an’ if you’ll only let me go quiet I’ll have the dog brought back first thing.”

“Well, I’m going to keep you, George, for the present. Whether I give you in charge or not depends entirely on whether I find you have been telling me the truth.”

“Thank you, yer riverence: you’ll never regret it.”

There was a sentimental ring in George’s voice, but the canon, being hard-hearted, was unimpressed. “Possibly not, though I shouldn’t be surprised if somebody else did. I suppose your friend has decamped?”

“I don’t know, yer riverence.”

The canon gave him a long look, which George, who objected to being stared at, did not meet. “I’m going to send now for the doctor. I’ll ask him to come round and have a look at your leg. Then I shall want you to act as guide――to take the car to where your camp is.... You’d better look after this, Palmer. You can explain the situation to Doctor O’Neill.”

Palmer nodded. He still held his revolver, but he now offered it to Canon Annesley. “You may as well have it, sir, in case he gives trouble. I’ll go on the bike.”

He departed, and the others sat down to wait. A policeman was the first to arrive, and the canon interviewed him in the dining-room. The circus had been found, he learned, but Grif was not with it; and the policeman related the story of Pouncer’s rescue, which was all the information they had been able to extract from the circus folk. “We’re looking after them,” he added.

The canon did not mention George, who at that moment sat quaking in the kitchen, expecting every moment to be delivered into the hands of his natural enemies. But George had really become a kind of drug on the market; he could not be given up, and as a guide he was no longer required; so when Palmer, in triumph, returned with the doctor, all the latter had to do was to attend a patient.

It was daylight when they gathered in the dining-room to discuss the situation, and the hero of it felt that the adventure was fizzling out far too undramatically. It became still less dramatic when both he and Edward were summarily ordered to bed.

Doctor O’Neill watched them go out, an expression of mingled amusement and interest on his face.

“That’s an extraordinary youngster!” he said, after the door had closed. “I’d rather like to have a boy like that.” The doctor was a bachelor between thirty and thirty-five, and still young enough to appreciate Palmer’s escapade.

The canon shook his head. “I don’t know that he did much good by shooting the unfortunate George. By the way, I wonder where the revolver came from! I’m afraid there are a number of things that will have to be inquired into to-morrow.”

“I wonder where poor Grif is?” said Aunt Caroline. “It’s really dreadful――――this uncertainty.”

“I somehow feel as if they should all be severely punished,” the canon went on. “And yet, on the face of it, there doesn’t seem to be anything to punish them for!”

“It’s their doing things on their own account that makes all the trouble. None of this would have happened if Grif hadn’t rushed off by himself, and if Palmer had told us he expected a burglar.”

The doctor shrugged his broad shoulders. “Would you have believed him if he had?” he asked sceptically.

“Of course the burglar was a pure and unadulterated fluke,” declared the canon. “He hadn’t really any intention of breaking into the house.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“But it would have been madness. The first thing the police would have thought of would have been this circus.”

Aunt Caroline sighed. “Well, if poor Grif is none the worse, I shan’t complain. But we really must talk to them seriously.”

“You’re going to have them with you all the rest of the summer, aren’t you?” asked the doctor. “You must find it quite exciting!”

The canon agreed. “We are certainly seeing life.”

Doctor O’Neill took up his hat, and then suddenly laughed. “Well, as I began by saying, I’d quite like to have a boy like that. I wonder if it would bore him very much to come round some evening to see me.”

“Oh, they’ll all come if you want them,” Aunt Caroline assured him.

“He doesn’t,” said her father. “It is only the reckless Palmer who has fascinated him.”

The doctor nodded. “I admit it. After all, it was rather a big thing, you know, to bring off at his age. It’s quite interesting. I’ve often wondered if coolness and courage of that sort spring from insensibility, or if they can exist along with more domestic qualities. This Palmer, for instance, may really have in him the makings of a first-class criminal――not one like the poor devil he collared, but the real genuine superior article.”

“Don’t, doctor; you oughtn’t to say such things,” murmured Aunt Caroline, a little shocked.

“Oh, I’m only joking: any one can see he’s a decent little chap.... However, I’ll not keep you out of bed any longer.”

“You’re not keeping me,” Aunt Caroline assured him. “I shan’t get a wink till Grif comes home.”

“Well, I’ll look in during the day and hear the news.”