'Well, you jumped at the suggestion.'
The two men had faced each other heatedly, and for a moment it seemed as if there was to be a serious falling-out. Then the bishop recovered himself.
'Catsmeat,' he said, with that wonderful smile of his, taking the other's hand, 'this is unworthy of us. We must not quarrel. We must put our heads together and see if there is not some avenue of escape from the unfortunate position in which, however creditable our motives, we appear to have placed ourselves. How would it be—?'
'I thought of that,' said the headmaster. 'It wouldn't do a bit of good. Of course, we might—'
'No, that's no use, either,' said the bishop.
They sat for a while in meditative silence. And, as they sat, the door opened.
'General Bloodenough,' announced the butler.
'Oh, that I had wings like a dove. Psalm xlv, 6,' muttered the bishop.
His desire to be wafted from that spot with all available speed could hardly be considered unreasonable. General Sir Hector Bloodenough, V.C., K.C.I.E., M.V.O., on retiring from the army, had been for many years, until his final return to England, in charge of the Secret Service in Western Africa, where his unerring acumen had won for him from the natives the soubriquet of Wah-nah-B'gosh-B'jingo—which, freely translated, means Big Chief Who Can See Through The Hole In A Doughnut.
A man impossible to deceive. The last man the bishop would have wished to be conducting the present investigations.