The shoe became the center of attention, the cynosure of all eyes. Mr. Downing fixed it with the piercing stare of one who feels that his brain is tottering. The headmaster looked at it with a mildly puzzled expression. Psmith, putting up his eyeglass, gazed at it with a sort of affectionate interest, as if he were waiting for it to do a trick of some kind.
Mr. Downing was the first to break the silence.
"There was paint on this shoe," he said vehemently. "I tell you there was a splash of red paint across the toe. Smith will bear me out in this. Smith, you saw the paint on this shoe?"
"Paint, sir?"
"What! Do you mean to tell me that you did not see it?"
"No, sir. There was no paint on this shoe."
"This is foolery. I saw it with my own eyes. It was a broad splash right across the toe."
The headmaster interposed.
"You must have made a mistake, Mr. Downing. There is certainly no trace of paint on this shoe. These momentary optical delusions are, I fancy, not uncommon. Any doctor will tell you—"
"I had an aunt, sir," said Psmith chattily, "who was remarkably subject—"