Pillingshot smiled faintly.
"Eighteen different kinds of mud about here," he said patronisingly. "This is flower-bed mud from the house front-garden."
"Well? What about it?"
"Sh—h—h!" said Pillingshot, and glided out of the room.
"Well?" asked Scott next day. "Clues pouring in all right?"
"Rather."
"What? Got another?"
Pillingshot walked silently to the door and flung it open. He looked up and down the passage. Then he closed the door and returned to the table, where he took from his waistcoat-pocket a used match.
Scott turned it over inquiringly.