Part 18 (1/2)

A paraffin lamp was on the floor in a recess of the hall, and this our conductor took up when he had elosed the street door.

”This is the room,” he said, turning the key and thrusting the door open; ”the library they call it, but it's the front parlour in plain English.” He entered and, holding the lamp above his head, stared balefully at the broken window.

Thornd.y.k.e glanced quickly along the floor in the direction that the missile would have taken, and then said-

”Do you see any mark on the wall there?”

As he spoke, he indicated the wall opposite the window, which obviously could not have been struck by a projectile entering with such extreme obliquity; and I was about to point out this fact when I fortunately remembered the great virtue of silence.

Our friend approached the wall, still holding up the lamp, and scrutinised the surface with close attention; and while he was thus engaged, I observed Thornd.y.k.e stoop quickly and pick up something, which he deposited carefully, and without remark, in his waistcoat pocket.

”I don't see no bruise anywhere,” said the caretaker, sweeping his hand over the wall.

”Perhaps the thing struck this wall,” suggested Thornd.y.k.e, pointing to the one that was actually in the line of fire. ”Yes, of course,” he added, ”it would be this one-the shot came from Henry Street.”

The caretaker crossed the room and threw the light of his lamp on the wall thus indicated.

”Ah! here we are!” he exclaimed, with gloomy satisfaction, pointing to a small dent in which the wall-paper was turned back and the plaster exposed; ”looks almost like a bullet mark, but you say you didn't hear no report.”

”No,” said Thornd.y.k.e, ”there was no report; it must have been a catapult.”

The caretaker set the lamp down on the floor and proceeded to grope about for the projectile, in which operation we both a.s.sisted; and I could not suppress a faint smile as I noted the earnestness with which Thornd.y.k.e peered about the floor in search of the missile that was quietly reposing in his waistcoat pocket.

We were deep in our investigations when there was heard an uncompromising double knock at the street door, followed by the loud pealing of a bell in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

”Bobby, I suppose,” growled the caretaker. ”Here's a blooming fuss about nothing.” He caught up the lamp and went out, leaving us in the dark.

”I picked it up, you know,” said Thornd.y.k.e, when we were alone.

”I saw you,” I answered.

”Good; I applaud your discretion,” he rejoined. The caretaker's supposition was correct. When he returned, he was accompanied by a burly constable, who saluted us with a cheerful smile and glanced facetiously round the empty room.

”Our boys,” said he, nodding towards the broken window; ”they're playful lads, that they are. You were pa.s.sing when it happened, sir, I hear.”

”Yes,” answered Thornd.y.k.e; and he gave the constable a brief account of the occurrence, which the latter listened to, notebook in hand.

”Well,” said he when the narrative was concluded, ”if those hooligan boys are going to take to catapults they'll make things lively all round.”

”You ought to run some of 'em in,” said the caretaker.

”Run 'em in!” exclaimed the constable in a tone of disgust; ”yes! And then the magistrate will tell 'em to be good boys and give 'em five s.h.i.+llings out of the poor-box to buy ill.u.s.trated Testaments. I'd Testament them, the worthless varmints!”

He rammed his notebook fiercely into his pocket and stalked out of the room into the street, whither we followed.

”You'll find that bullet or stone when you sweep up the room,” he said, as he turned on to his beat; ”and you'd better let us have it. Good night, sir.”

He strolled off towards Henry Street, while Thornd.y.k.e and I resumed our journey southward.

”Why were you so secret about that projectile?” I asked my friend as we walked up the street.