Mr. Outwood started.
"Objection? None at all, my dear fellow, none at all. Let me see, what is it you wish to do?"
"This," said Mr. Downing shortly.
There was a pair of dumbbells on the floor, belonging to Mike. He never used them, but they always managed to get themselves packed with the rest of his belongings on the last day of the holidays. Mr. Downing seized one of these, and delivered two rapid blows at the cupboard door. The wood splintered. A third blow smashed the flimsy lock. The cupboard, with any skeletons it might contain, was open for all to view.
Mr. Downing uttered a cry of triumph, and tore the shoe from its resting place.
"I told you," he said. "I told you."
"I wondered where that shoe had got to," said Psmith. "I've been looking for it for days."
Mr. Downing was examining his find. He looked up with an exclamation of surprise and wrath.
"This shoe has no paint on it," he said, glaring at Psmith. "This is not the shoe."
"It certainly appears, sir," said Psmith sympathetically, "to be free from paint. There's a sort of reddish glow just there, if you look at it sideways," he added helpfully.