"What do you think of that?" said Clowes.

　　Trevor said nothing. He could not quite grasp the situation. It wasnot only that he had got the idea so firmly into his head that itwas Rand-Brown who had sent the letters and appropriated the bat.

　　Even supposing he had not suspected Rand-Brown, he would never havedreamed of suspecting Ruthven. They had been friends. Not very closefriends--Trevor's keenness for games and Ruthven's dislike of themprevented that--but a good deal more than acquaintances. He was soconstituted that he could not grasp the frame of mind required forsuch an action as Ruthven's. It was something absolutely abnormal.

　　Clowes was equally surprised, but for a different reason. It was not somuch the enormity of Ruthven's proceedings that took him aback. Hebelieved him, with that cheerful intolerance which a certain type ofmind affects, capable of anything. What surprised him was the fact thatRuthven had had the ingenuity and even the daring to conduct a campaignof this description. Cribbing in examinations he would have thought thelimit of his crimes. Something backboneless and underhand of that kindwould not have surprised him in the least. He would have said that itwas just about what he had expected all along. But that Ruthven shouldblossom out suddenly as quite an ingenious and capable criminal in thisway, was a complete surprise.

　　"Well, perhaps _you_'ll make a remark?" he said, turning toRuthven.

　　Ruthven, looking very much like a passenger on a Channel steamer whohas just discovered that the motion of the vessel is affecting himunpleasantly, had fallen into a chair when Clowes handed him off. Hesat there with a look on his pasty face which was not good to see, assilent as Trevor. It seemed that whatever conversation there was goingto be would have to take the form of a soliloquy from Clowes.

　　Clowes took a seat on the corner of the table.

　　"It seems to me, Ruthven," he said, "that you'd better say_something_. At present there's a lot that wants explaining. Asthis bat has been found lying in your drawer, I suppose we may take itthat you're the impolite letter-writer?"Ruthven found his voice at last.

　　"I'm not," he cried; "I never wrote a line.""Now we're getting at it," said Clowes. "I thought you couldn't havehad it in you to carry this business through on your own. Apparentlyyou've only been the sleeping partner in this show, though I suppose itwas you who ragged Trevor's study? Not much sleeping about that. Youtook over the acting branch of the concern for that day only, I expect.

　　Was it you who ragged the study?"Ruthven stared into the fire, but said nothing.

　　"Must be polite, you know, Ruthven, and answer when you're spoken to.

　　Was it you who ragged Trevor's study?""Yes," said Ruthven.