“I don’t know what the game is,” said Mike, kneeling beside the fender and groping, “but—Hullo!”
“Ah ha!” said Psmith moodily.
Mike dropped the soot-covered object in the fender, and glared at it.
“It’s my boot!” he said at last.
“It is,” said Psmith, “your boot. And what is that red stain across the toe? Is it blood? No, ’tis not blood. It is red paint.”
Mike seemed unable to remove his eyes from the boot.
“How on earth did—By Jove! I remember now. I kicked up against something in the dark when I was putting my bicycle back that night. It must have been the paint-pot.”
“Then you were out that night?”
“Rather. That’s what makes it so jolly awkward. It’s too long to tell you now——”