“He’ll want you to confess, too.  Masters are all whales on confession.  The worst of it is, you can’t prove an alibi, because at about the time the foul act was perpetrated, you were playing Round-and-round-the-mulberry-bush with Comrade Downing.  This needs thought.  You had better put the case in my hands, and go out and watch the dandelions growing.  I will think over the matter.”

“Well, I hope you’ll be able to think of something.  I can’t.”

“Possibly.  You never know.”

There was a tap at the door.

“See how we have trained them,” said Psmith.  “They now knock before entering.  There was a time when they would have tried to smash in a panel.  Come in.”

A small boy, carrying a straw hat adorned with the school-house ribbon, answered the invitation.

“Oh, I say, Jackson,” he said, “the headmaster sent me over to tell you he wants to see you.”

“I told you so,” said Mike to Psmith.

“Don’t go,” suggested Psmith.  “Tell him to write.”

Mike got up.

“All this is very trying,” said Psmith.  “I’m seeing nothing of you to-day.”  He turned to the small boy.  “Tell Willie,” he added, “that Mr. Jackson will be with him in a moment.”

The emissary departed.

“You’re all right,” said Psmith encouragingly.  “Just you keep on saying you’re all right.  Stout denial is the thing.  Don’t go in for any airy explanations.  Simply stick to stout denial.  You can’t beat it.”

With which expert advice, he allowed Mike to go on his way.

He had not been gone two minutes, when Psmith, who had leaned back in his chair, wrapped in thought, heaved himself up again.  He stood for a moment straightening his tie at the looking-glass; then he picked up his hat and moved slowly out of the door and down the passage.  Thence, at the same dignified rate of progress, out of the house and in at Downing’s front gate.

The postman was at the door when he got there, apparently absorbed in conversation with the parlour-maid.  Psmith stood by politely till the postman, who had just been told it was like his impudence, caught sight of him, and, having handed over the letters in an ultra-formal and professional manner, passed away.

“Is Mr. Downing at home?” inquired Psmith.

He was, it seemed.  Psmith was shown into the dining-room on the left of the hall, and requested to wait.  He was examining a portrait of Mr. Downing which hung on the wall, when the housemaster came in.

“An excellent likeness, sir,” said Psmith, with a gesture of the hand towards the painting.

“Well, Smith,” said Mr. Downing shortly, “what do you wish to see me about?”

“It was in connection with the regrettable painting of your dog, sir.”

“Ha!” said Mr. Downing.

“I did it, sir,” said Psmith, stopping and flicking a piece of fluff off his knee.

CHAPTER LVIII 

THE ARTIST CLAIMS HIS WORK

The line of action which Psmith had called Stout Denial is an excellent line to adopt, especially if you really are innocent, but it does not lead to anything in the shape of a bright and snappy dialogue between accuser and accused.  Both Mike and the headmaster were oppressed by a feeling that the situation was difficult.  The atmosphere was heavy, and conversation showed a tendency to flag.  The headmaster had opened brightly enough, with a summary of the evidence which Mr. Downing had laid before him, but after that a massive silence had been the order of the day.  There is nothing in this world quite so stolid and uncommunicative as a boy who has made up his mind to be stolid and uncommunicative; and the headmaster, as he sat and looked at Mike, who sat and looked past him at the bookshelves, felt awkward.  It was a scene which needed either a dramatic interruption or a neat exit speech.  As it happened, what it got was the dramatic interruption.

The headmaster was just saying, “I do not think you fully realise, Jackson, the extent to which appearances—­” —­which was practically going back to the beginning and starting again—­when there was a knock at the door.  A voice without said, “Mr. Downing to see you, sir,” and the chief witness for the prosecution burst in.

“I would not have interrupted you,” said Mr. Downing, “but——­”

“Not at all, Mr. Downing.  Is there anything I can——?”

“I have discovered—­I have been informed—­In short, it was not Jackson, who committed the—­who painted my dog.”

Mike and the headmaster both looked at the speaker.  Mike with a feeling of relief—­for Stout Denial, unsupported by any weighty evidence, is a wearing game to play—­the headmaster with astonishment.

“Not Jackson?” said the headmaster.

“No.  It was a boy in the same house.  Smith.”