please, sir.”

“A noise?”

“Please, sir, a row.”

“You thought you heard----!”

The thing seemed to be worrying Mr. Wain.

“So I came down, sir,” said Mike.

The house-master’s giant brain still appeared to be somewhat clouded. He looked about him, and, catching sight of the gramophone, drew inspiration from it.

“Did you turn on the gramophone?” he asked.

“Me, sir!” said Mike, with the air of a bishop accused of contributing to the Police News.“He’s at a day-school near home. Working like a nigger for some exam
or other. Why?”“The point is this, my lad. Why do parents send their sons to
boarding-schools? That’s what _I_ want to know. I tell you it beats me.
Beats me hollow. Here’s your father, let us say, dwelling quiet and
peaceful at Rottingdean or Woking or some such spot. Everything nice
and comfortable about him. A good cook. The paper after breakfast.
Possibly fishing. What more does he want? When what does he do? Packs
_you_ off to a boys’ home, where you lead the life of a cat in a strange
garret. Answer me that, Trevor.”“Can’t stick fellows who are always grumbling at their bread and butter,”
said Trevor. “School ... hallo, here’s Mike, with a face.”Mike burst into the room. He was a stately figure with rumpled hair
and eyes alight with excitement.“Gee!” he said, “you never heard such a go as there’s been. Fellow
called Thomas has just turned up. School fag.”“Yes? What’s he done?”“But this wasn’t all. Because what then happened was that he turned
out to be the long lost brother of Wyatt, our House-master’s fag. Wyatt
was simply paralysed.”Trevor banged down the kettle with a crash.“But you don’t mean to tell me----”“Yes,” cried Mike, “the burglar!”“Marlborough.”

“That shows your sense. I have always had a high opinion of your sense, Trevor. If you’d been a silly ass, you’d have let your people send him here.”

“Why not? Shouldn’t have minded.”

“I withdraw what I said about your sense. 

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