"What do you think of that?" said Clowes.

　　Trevor said nothing. He could not quite grasp the situation. It wasnot only that he had got the idea so firmly into his head that itwas Rand-Brown who had sent the letters and appropriated the bat.

　　Even supposing he had not suspected Rand-Brown, he would never havedreamed of suspecting Ruthven. They had been friends. Not very closefriends--Trevor's keenness for games and Ruthven's dislike of themprevented that--but a good deal more than acquaintances. He was soconstituted that he could not grasp the frame of mind required forsuch an action as Ruthven's. It was something absolutely abnormal.

　　Clowes was equally surprised, but for a different reason. It was not somuch the enormity of Ruthven's proceedings that took him aback. Hebelieved him, with that cheerful intolerance which a certain type ofmind affects, capable of anything. What surprised him was the fact thatRuthven had had the ingenuity and even the daring to conduct a campaignof this description. Cribbing in examinations he would have thought thelimit of his crimes. Something backboneless and underhand of that kindwould not have surprised him in the least. He would have said that itwas just about what he had expected all along. But that Ruthven shouldblossom out suddenly as quite an ingenious and capable criminal in thisway, was a complete surprise.

　　"Well, perhaps _you_'ll make a remark?" he said, turning toRuthven.

　　Ruthven, looking very much like a passenger on a Channel steamer whohas just discovered that the motion of the vessel is affecting himunpleasantly, had fallen into a chair when Clowes handed him off. Hesat there with a look on his pasty face which was not good to see, assilent as Trevor. It seemed that whatever conversation there was goingto be would have to take the form of a soliloquy from Clowes.

　　Clowes took a seat on the corner of the table.

　　"It seems to me, Ruthven," he said, "that you'd better say_something_. At present there's a lot that wants explaining. Asthis bat has been found lying in your drawer, I suppose we may take itthat you're the impolite letter-writer?"Ruthven found his voice at last.

　　"I'm not," he cried; "I never wrote a line.""Now we're getting at it," said Clowes. "I thought you couldn't havehad it in you to carry this business through on your own. Apparentlyyou've only been the sleeping partner in this show, though I suppose itwas you who ragged Trevor's study? Not much sleeping about that. Youtook over the acting branch of the concern for that day only, I expect.

　　Was it you who ragged the study?"Ruthven stared into the fire, but said nothing.

　　"Must be polite, you know, Ruthven, and answer when you're spoken to.

　　Was it you who ragged Trevor's study?""Yes," said Ruthven.

　　"Thought so.""Why, of course, I met you just outside," said Trevor, speaking for thefirst time. "You were the chap who told me what had happened."Ruthven said nothing.

　　"The ragging of the study seems to have been all the active work hedid," remarked Clowes.

　　"No," said Trevor, "he posted the letters, whether he wrote them ornot. Milton was telling me--you remember? I told you. No, I didn't.

　　Milton found out that the letters were posted by a small, light-hairedfellow.""That's him," said Clowes, as regardless of grammar as the monks ofRheims, pointing with the poker at Ruthven's immaculate locks. "Well,you ragged the study and posted the letters. That was all your share.

　　Am I right in thinking Rand-Brown was the other partner?"Silence from Ruthven.

　　"Am I?" persisted Clowes.

　　"You may think what you like. I don't care.""Now we're getting rude again," complained Clowes. "_Was_ Rand-Brownin this?""Yes," said Ruthven.

　　"Thought so. And who else?""No one.""Try again.""I tell you there was no one else. Can't you believe a word a chapsays?""A word here and there, perhaps," said Clowes, as one making aconcession, "but not many, and this isn't one of them. Have anothershot."Ruthven relapsed into silence.

　　"All right, then," said Clowes, "we'll accept that statement. There'sjust a chance that it may be true. And that's about all, I think. Thisisn't my affair at all, really. It's yours, Trevor. I'm only aspectator and camp-follower. It's your business. You'll find me in mystudy." And putting the poker carefully in its place, Clowes left theroom. He went into his study, and tried to begin some work. But thebeauties of the second book of Thucydides failed to appeal to him. Hismind was elsewhere. He felt too excited with what had just happened totranslate Greek. He pulled up a chair in front of the fire, and gavehimself up to speculating how Trevor was getting on in the neighbouringstudy. He was glad he had left him to finish the business. If he hadbeen in Trevor's place, there was nothing he would so greatly havedisliked as to have some one--how............