“What means this, my lord?”
“Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.”
—Hamlet.
“We are here to do what service we may, for honor and not for hire.”—Robert Louis Stevenson.
With Billy went the sheriff and Alec, the latter with a sheaf of telegrams.
“Now ... how did Buttinski’s noseguard get into this bank? That’s what I’d like to know,” said Billy to the doorknob, when the other committeemen had gone their ways. “I didn’t bring it. I don’t believe Buttinski did.... And Policeman Lake certainly saw us quarreling. He noticed the football player, right enough,—and he pretends he didn’t. Why—why—why does Policeman Lake pretend he didn’t see that football player? Echo answers—why?... Denmark’s all putrefied!”
The low sun cleared the housetops. The level rays fell along the window-sill; and Billy, staring fascinated at the single blotch of dried blood on the inner sill, saw something glitter and sparkle there beside it. He went closer. It was a dust of finely powdered glass. Billy whistled.
A light foot ran up the steps. There was a rap at the door.
“No entrance except on business. No business transacted here!” quoted Billy, startled from a deep study. A head appeared at the window. “Oh, it’s you, Jimmy? That’s different. Come in!”
It was Jimmy Phillips, the chief deputy. Billy knew him and liked him. He unbarred the door.
“Well, anything turned up yet?” demanded Jimmy. “I stopped in to see Lars. Him and me was old side partners.”