"It's the Plough's best," retorted Billy. "You're getting swelled head." Then he slapped me on the shoulder. "Jack," he said, "I've found my job in life—I can give Sherlock Holmes two stone and put him out in the first round."
Billy was not given to boasting, so I looked at him with interest.
"Proceed, William," I said encouragingly.
He stuffed the 'baccy down with his thumb and chuckled to himself. "Last night," he began, "I did a bit of scouting. I thought it would be just as well to sniff around and see how the land lay, so, as soon as I'd had some grub, I tootled along here as far as the lodge. I hung about outside for a bit, taking my bearings, and then, as there wasn't anybody about, I dropped in over the hedge and tracked up through the shrubbery till I got to the house. I'd been there about ten minutes, squatting down under a bush, when who should come up the drive but your old dot-and-carry-one friend!"
"Who?" I inquired.
"Why, the chap who doctored your butler's drink. At least, it was exactly like your description of him. A big, ugly, lopsided beggar he was, with one shoulder about an inch higher than the other."
"Go on, Billy," I said. "This is getting exciting."
"Well, he crawled up in a hang-dog sort of way, and sat down on the balustrade just in front of where I was hiding. I thought he was expecting somebody, and sure enough, he hadn't been there many minutes when out came a fellow in evening-dress—your cousin, I should reckon, by the cut of his jib."
"Maurice did take a little air after dinner," I observed. "He said he wanted to see the keeper."
"Did he?" drawled Billy. "Well, he saw him all right. They stood there jawing for the best part of twenty minutes, and all about you, my son."