“Can’t explain now,” he said. “Just go and stick on to your minor, and don’t let Bags question him. There’s something up.”
Ferrers obeyed the bidding of the master-mind, and by a rapid flank march got in front of Bags, who called to him. But he took no notice, and presently David saw him lead off his minor like a policeman. At that his habitually seraphic face grew a shade more angelic, and any one who did not know him must have been surprised that wings did not sprout from his low slim shoulders. The Machiavellian device which he had practised had come to him like an inspiration: if Bags’s conscience was clear, he would not mind a scrap for the wakefulness of young Ferrers, and David was morally (or immorally) sure that Bags’s conscience was not immaculate. He had had something to do with the disappearance of the stag-beetles, though exactly what David had no idea. Then he gave a little cackle of delight, for he saw that Bags had stopped in his indolent stroll with the racquet-handle; then that he turned and was coming back towards him. David lay down at full length and whistled in an absent manner. Without looking, he became aware that Bags was standing close to him.
“I say, Blazes, I want to tell you something,” said that conscious-stricken one at length.
David sat up with an air of great surprise.
“Hallo: that you?” he said. “Tell away then, if it won’t take too long.”
“Well, it’s private. You must swear not to tell any one.”
David shook his head.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” he said.
“Why not?”
David turned on him an indulgent glance.