"He must have taken a fancy to William," said William's mother. "SOME people do...."
"Now I must find you something to read," went on Aunt Ellen to William's mother. "I've got some perfectly charming books that I know you'll love."
"They're all about a little boy—such a dear—called Peter. They're written by his mother. They're perfectly true. She tells you so in the preface. They're so beautiful that they make me want to cry whenever I read them. I lent one to William before he went out this afternoon—'Peter, the Sunshine of the Home'—but he seems to have mislaid it. However, I've got heaps more. She—the mother—writes very beautiful little articles in one of the magazines. She must be a charming woman—to say nothing of Peter." She threw William a smiling glance. "There are some things our William might learn from Peter."
With all his faults, William knew when to keep his own counsel.
He merely winked at the cat.
CHAPTER X
THE GREAT DETECTIVE
The play was produced by the village dramatic society. William watched it spellbound from the front row, sitting between his mother and father. It was to him like the gateway to a new and enthralling life. He could not see why his elder brother and sister were laughing. The scene opened immediately after a murder. The corpse had been removed (somewhat to William's disappointment), otherwise the room was as the murderer had left it. William held his breath as uniformed policemen innumerable moved about the stage with note-books, looking for clues, crawling under the table, and examining the floor with magnifying glasses. The only clue they could find left by the murderer had been a red triangle drawn upon a piece of paper and neatly pinned to the body by a dagger. This, they informed the audience many times, was the mark of a criminal gang of robbers and murderers who were baffling Scotland Yard.
Then the Great Detective came upon the scene, followed by a very bored-looking and elderly bloodhound, with its tail between its legs. The bloodhound, having made its appearance amid applause, contented itself with sitting in the corner of the stage and gazing scornfully at the audience. The Great Detective advanced to the centre of the stage, bent down, and picked up a cigarette end from the floor. It had been left by the murderer. The police, who had failed to notice it, fell into postures of ardent admiration. The cigarette end, naturally, bore the name of the maker, and yet more naturally was a blend made specially for the murderer. So justice set off hot upon the track, and the bloodhound yawned sleepily and shuffled off in the wake of the Great Detective.
The next scene showed the murderer moving in scenes of luxury and magnificence, wearing evening dress at all hours of the day, entertaining earls and ambassadors amid tropical palms and gilded pillars, and waited on by an army of obsequious footmen.