"I'm telling the truth," was all I could say.
"Does that look like it?"
The floor certainly did not look like it. Bits of paper were strewn in all directions, and the bottle of ink on the desk had been upset, creating a small blue-black river, running diagonally over the oil-cloth towards the safe that stood beside the window.
Of course I knew at once who had done all this. Gus had vowed to get square with me, and this was his method of doing so. Yet I could not help but wonder what the outcome would be.
"I say, does that floor look like it?" repeated Mr. Stillwell, in gathering wrath.
"I didn't do this, Uncle Felix."
"You didn't?" he sneered. "Well, who did, then? We haven't any cat to do it."
I was on the point of saying it was a two-legged cat, but thinking he would not relish the joke, replied:
"I don't know. Gus was here."
"My son? Impossible! I left him at home half an hour ago."