Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story

by Charles Ross Jackson

The physician reached for it, but it was gone.

"I think this must be it," said Oakes, holding out the missing article. "Next time you hide on your stomach behind a tree, do it properly."

Moore was dumfounded.

"What!" I cried, "you know that too? We did not tell you."

"No, you did not. You began your narration at the wrong end—or perhaps you forgot," and his eyes twinkled.

"But how did you learn of it?" demanded Moore, recovering. And Quintus smiled outright.

"My man was behind another tree only ten feet away from you the whole time. When you left, he picked up this as a memento of your brilliant detective work."

Moore and I smarted a little under the sarcasm, and I asked what the man was doing there.

"Oh, he was watching Mike and, incidentally, keeping you two from mischief. You need a guardian. You never even suspected his presence, and—suppose he had been the assassin!"