"Smith!" he said excitedly.
"On the spot, sir," said Psmith affably.
"Where are Jackson's shoes?"
There are moments when the giddy excitement of being right on the trail
causes the amateur (or Watsonian) detective to be incautious. Such a
moment came to Mr. Downing then. If he had been wise, he would have
achieved his object, the getting a glimpse of Mike's shoes, by a devious
and snaky route. As it was, he rushed straight on.
"His shoes, sir? He has them on. I noticed them as he went out just
now."
"Where is the pair he wore yesterday?"
"Where are the shoes of yesteryear?" murmured Psmith to himself. "I
should say at a venture, sir, that they would be in the basket,
downstairs. Edmund, our genial knife-and-boot boy, collects them, I
believe, at early dawn."
"Would they have been cleaned yet?"
"If I know Edmund, sir--no."
"Smith," said Mr. Downing, trembling with excitement, "go and bring that
basket to me here."
Psmith's brain was working rapidly as he went downstairs. What exactly
was at the back of the sleuth's mind, prompting these maneuvers, he did
not know. But that there was something, and that that something was
directed in a hostile manner against Mike, probably in connection with
last night's wild happenings, he was certain.
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