“Nonsense, sir! Leave it as it is; the one to take it off is the one who put it there! I’ll get to the bottom of this at once. Call Mr. Collins!”
Mr. Collins appeared on the scene presently. So did some of the fellows. So did more of them. They stopped and stared open-mouthed. Five minutes later the news was all over school and every fellow who was able to reach the scene reached it. Professor McIntyre had left.
“Ah,” said Mr. Collins, “here is a trail of paint. We will follow it up.” They did so, watched curiously by most of the school. The trail led them to the first entrance of Dudley. Inside the door was a large splash on the floor, as though the paint pot had been hit against the corner of the wainscoting. Further along a brush mark showed on the wall and a second was discovered beside the doorway of Number 7. There the trail seemed to end.
“Who rooms here?” demanded the Doctor. Mr. Collins shook his head.
“I’m not certain, sir. Shall we look inside?”
“Yes, I want this thing settled here and now.” Mr. Collins knocked and received no reply. He opened the door.
“Ah!” he said. The light from the room showed finger prints in blue paint on the edge of the door. They passed in. They searched, and—for why prolong the suspense?—under one of the beds in the bedroom, pushed well up against the wall, they found a gallon can half filled with blue paint and containing a brush. They bore it forth in triumph, the Doctor marching ahead in outraged dignity, Mr. Collins following, trophy in hand, looking troubled and thoughtful.
Outside, Yardley Hall was in a state of wild excitement. Wonderment and amusement alternated. Speculation was rife. Who had done it? “Now for Broadwood!” they read, for although the Professor had managed to remove the paint as far as the first R, the inscription was still legible for its entire length, the first of the letters being yet visible as lighter streaks against the dark red bricks.
“Somebody will get thunder for this, all right,” observed Joe Chambers with a grin. “I’m mighty glad I’m not mixed up in it!”
“Gee!” replied Alf Loring. “So’m I! Old Tobey looked like a thunder-cloud.”