Jack Symonds had barely time to make certain that his hurried dive under the bed had not been observed, when Doctor Daw and Tiger were well within the room.
"A bit late for a call," said Daw grimly, "but there's no one to notice, luckily. Different last night, though."
"How so?" said Tiger. There came the sound of a match being struck, and Jack could presently smell the distinctive odour of tobacco. "How do you make that out?"
"Why, I had a cut for the Star," said Daw quickly. "And do you know what happened? I'd searched through about half the cupboards down there in the study where he's pretty sure to have it thus early. All at once, the door opened, and in walks one of the kids—"
"Not young Faraday?"
"No; a new chap from New Zealand; and instead of being scared, he jumped at me like a terrier on a rat. I got away, but only just. I tell you, Tiger, I—"
"See here," interrupted the other, "don't call me that name. It—well, you never know who might hear it, and—anyway, my name's Humbolt. Well, how did you get on with this kid? Scared you some, I'll bet!"
"I won't say he didn't," confessed Daw. "The lucky thing was, I had a scarf over my face, and he can't say who did it. Probably thinks it was some outsider. But the Star won't be in that study now, you can gamble on that. I've one of the kids a bit under my thumb, through knowing him down in Victoria, and he's keeping a fairly close watch on what this Faraday does, and where he goes, and all that sort of thing."
Jack, beneath the bed, opened his eyes wide at this piece of news, and wondered who the boy could be. Nobody, he decided, in his immediate circle; but the fact that the youngster came from Victoria was a clue that would perhaps come in handy.
"I'll put Patch on to that," he thought, and gave himself over to listening to what the two plotters were saying.
"Ah, well," Humbolt was heard to murmur, with a sigh of relief, "I'm real glad you didn't give away the box of tricks last night. We'd have been pretty well diddled if they suspected that you—you know."
"That's safe enough," said Doctor Daw confidently; and Jack felt like chuckling at the thought that Daw was quite mistaken.
"You didn't reckon on Patch being a 'tec," he murmured, smiling to himself.
"I guess it's lucky that I met you," said Daw suddenly. "Do you know, I never liked playing a lone hand, and with you close by I feel a lot safer. And Lazare's the man to pay well, believe me, if only we can collar that Star. Hang me, it ought to be simple enough! Don't forget those instructions for Friday night, will you?"
"Trust me, Doc. And now, what about those goods—and the money?"
"They're in my leather handbag, somewhere." Doctor Daw stifled an immense yawn. "I'm feeling like sleep—you wouldn't credit how it knocks you up trying to teach these blockheads here."
"Of course, you always were a good teacher," sneered Humbolt.
"I used to be, once," returned Doctor Daw.
"Until you carelessly stole that money and left clues that a blind man could follow, and, of course, got what you were looking for. Twelve months, wasn't it—or was it two years? I've forgotten."
"You'd better forget the whole lot," answered Daw, with a threatening note in his voice. "You leave my past history alone, and I won't rake up yours. That stands, doesn't it? After this business I'm going straight."
"Straight?" Humbolt laughed. "Never in your life, Doctor. You got in here on forged references, and do you mean to say—"
"That I'm going to stay here? Certainly. Supposing we get the Star—no suspicion attaches to me. I'll just stay on; there'll be no question as to my honesty."
"Oh, won't there?" thought Jack. "Just you wait and see, that's all. There'll be quite a lot of question, if I know anything!"
"Well, don't let me keep you up any longer," said Humbolt in his usual cynical tone. "Where's this handbag?"
"Somewhere about. Have a look, will you? Probably under the bed, or somewhere. Never can remember where I put my things!"
Jack felt his blood run cold at the words. Under the bed! He glanced about him, and saw that the handbag was certainly not there. All the same, if they were to look, the fat would be in the fire with a vengeance! What the two would do to one who had obviously overheard their very compromising conversation, Jack did not dare to imagine. He wriggled back against the wall, praying that he would not be seen; but he realized that the chances of escaping notice were very slender indeed. For what seemed an age he heard the two of them walking about, and heard the noise of furniture moved; and still they did not come near the bed.
What if they knew, and were merely making a mockery of his suspense and dread? The thought was a disconcerting one. Jack felt like scrambling from under the bed, and facing them, consequences or no consequences. He felt certain that they had seen him, had heard him—knew in some way, and were just tormenting him. Just at the moment when the strain seemed too great to be borne, a leg appeared at the side of the bed, and the counterpane was lifted. In another second the person would stoop and peer under the bed. With bulging eyes, Jack Symonds awaited his exposure.
"It's all right—I've got it." It was Doctor Daw's voice, from across the room, and Humbolt let fall the counterpane once more. Jack almost fainted with relief.
Shortly afterwards, to his joy, both left the room, Daw intimating that he would see his companion safely off the premises; and Jack crawled out of his hiding-place, feeling stiff and cramped, but glad indeed that he had been permitted to take a glance at the plot that was preparing itself against his chum.
He hurried through the dark corridors, and slipped into the dormitory without being noticed by the monitor in charge. His pals were all eagerness to be told what had happened to him; but he was in no mood for explanations.
"I'll tell you in the morning," he said. "I'm jolly sleepy."
And that was all that they could get out of him. The next morning, however, he had a lot to say, and especially to Billy Faraday.
"Look here, Billy," he said, "you really must take care of that Star, because Lazare and these others have some scheme going for Friday night. What it was, or what was proposed, I've got no idea; but Daw told the other chap to be ready, or words to that effect. Can't we hide the thing somewhere?"
"Yes, but where?"
"And there's another thing, too. Daw mentioned a kid—one of the fellows here—that's under his thumb, and who's going to keep an eye on what we do."
"Jingo!" said Billy. "The dickens he is! Wonder who it is?"
"Here's Patch, and perhaps he can find out for us. How are you, my giddy old sleuth-hound? I may as well tell you that you scored a bull with that bootlace clue."
"Comrades, I'm delighted. You compared the laces?"
"No. You see, Daw had the boots on. But I heard all about it, and I don't doubt that your clue would have worked out to the last bend in the tag on the lace. There's something else, though—" And Jack told him the strange conversation that he had overheard, particularly with reference to the spy that Daw controlled among the ranks of the college boys.
"Interesting, comrade, deeply interesting," said the schoolboy detective, rubbing his chin in the approved Sherlock Holmes manner. "It seems to me that the field is not too large, either. I mean, the boy must be in this house to keep any sort of watch over Faraday here, and as he comes from Victoria, that narrows the field still further. You twig? There are only a limited number of chaps in Salmon's House hailing from Victoria. And we can whittle them down one by one. I'll get a list of them, and we'll eliminate those above suspicion. That will leave under a dozen, I should say, to be watched."
"Patch, you old genius!" Jack Symonds smote him heartily between the shoulders, and the old genius was projected into the fireplace, whence he recovered himself with injured dignity.
"It's only attention to detail, that's all," murmured Septimus deprecatingly. "I picked that up from Dupin—"
"From whom?" demanded Jack.
"Dupin—that's Edgar Allan Poe's detective, and a real snorting detective at that. Ever read any of it?"
"Dunno. Didn't old Edgar write somethin' about the Bells—Bells—Bells, yells, shells, or some rot like that? My giddy sister recites some yards of rubbish to that effect."
"That's the fellow. Any rate, he wrote 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.'"
"Gur-r-r!" said Jack, frowning heavily. "Sort of sequel to 'The Bloodstained Putty-knife, or the Bricklayer's Revenge.'"
Septimus smiled as one who indulges the caprices of a child. "Comrade, you will never make a detective," he said. "I've got the book here, with the yarns in it, if you'd care to read them. Meanwhile—"
"Look here," interrupted Billy Faraday, a shade impatiently. "There's not much time before morning-school, and I'd like to hide the Star before we go any further. Of course, I might stick it in the pouch of my belt and carry it about with me, but don't you think that's just the scheme that'd strike Lazare and his crowd as being most natural. I might be knocked down and searched; anything might happen."
"One of the boards in this floor is loose," said Jack thoughtfully. "How would it be to prise it up and drop the Star down there? We could replace the carpet, and nobody would be any the wiser."
But Septimus Patch had what he considered a better idea. "We were just now talking," he observed, "of Dupin, the first scientific detective in fiction. There is a story about him, called 'The Purloined Letter.' The strength of it is that a fellow is known to have a letter which he has stolen, but it baffles the detectives to find it. They go all over his room, rip up the boards, sound the cabinets for secret drawers, take accurate measurements of the tables, probe everything, but the merry old letter is still missing, although they know for a fact that it's somewhere about the fellow's house. They call old Dupin in, and he finds it right away."
"How?"
"By using his brains, comrade; by simple reasoning. Here, hand me that book of Poe's, and I'll read some of his reasoning."
A day or two before, Jack and Billy would have laughed at Patch's request, and refused his help; but they had to admit that he had used his brains in regard to the footprint clue, and they were willing to give him a chance to safeguard the Black Star on the strength of that first triumph.
"Here you are," said Billy a little sceptically, throwing over the desired volume. "Show us what you can do."
Patch whipped over the pages with accustomed fingers, and began to read. "Says Dupin, 'There is a game of puzzles which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word—the name of a town, river, State, or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious."
"That's all right," agreed Jack. "I've noticed that myself. But what happened?"
"That's the whole point of the yarn," returned Patch. "Dupin came to the conclusion that the thief had not concealed the letter at all. He pratted along to the chap's house, and saw that he had several cards in a letter-rack, and a solitary letter. The appearance of the letter was quite different to the missing one. But Dupin says, 'In scrutinizing the edges of the paper I observed them to be more chafed than necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out, re-directed and re-sealed.' Well, after that," pursued Patch, shutting the book, "he came next day with another letter done up in the same way. He got a fellow to fire off a pistol and raise a shindy in the street below, and while the thief was looking to see what was up he got the stolen letter and put his own in its place. In the letter he'd put a stinging quotation to the effect that there was no copyright on that particular trick."
"I'll bet the thief got a surprise when he came to open it up," chuckled Jack, who had been following the story with interest. "But I see what you are driving at—you don't want to conceal the Star at all?"
"Not as open as all that," said Patch. "But let us get hold of some place that's so obvious that nobody would ever dream of looking there."
"Billy can wear it as a tie-pin," suggested Jack, with a laugh. "Or we could put it up over the mantelpiece."
"No, comrade; a little subtlety is necessary. What about that old jacket of yours, Billy? That one hanging up in the corner? We could sew the Star up in the lining, and leave the jacket there. We'd notice in a moment if the jacket were gone. But nobody would think of that as a hiding-place, and that's why it is the safest place in the world. Savvy?"
"Sure thing. Do you think it's the best place?"
"Of course I do, comrade. Now, I've got a needle and cotton somewhere, I think, and if you like I'll do the job now."
Somewhat reluctantly Billy passed over the Black Star, and with deft hands Patch ripped up the lining under the shoulder-padding of the coat. Then, while Jack looked to see that they were not overheard at the door, and while Billy kept watch at the window, Septimus embedded the Star in the padding, and closed the seam again as neatly as a tailor.
"There," he commented, hanging the coat up again in its accustomed position. "The fellow who finds that we've left the Star in such an easy position will be cuter than most people. Now we'll have to cut—it's nearly form-time."
And with their preparation in the most hazy and uncertain state, the three occupants of Study No. 9 hurried down to class. That afternoon the Star was still in place, and Billy breathed freely. "I suppose it's as safe there as anywhere," he thought. "I say, Jack, what's that hideous din?"