"_Plant_. It isn’t Mr. Plant, because he said would I like to go out in a motor, a new one, ninety-horse power, and I said rather, if he’d let her rip. And he looked anshious I thought. He tiped me. "_Goby_. It isn’t Goby, Goby says he’ll always be my friend. He said had I another pony not sound, to experiment with. He stamped up and down, some. He tiped me. "_Williams_. It isn’t Williams, he took me to lunch and told me lots of things about the Chinese that his paper wouldn’t print. They were orful. He said if I’d keep in with him he knew worse. He didn’t tip me this time because the lunch was so much. I had turtell three times. "_Rivaulx_. It isn’t the Frenchy because he tore his hair, and said I could go up in a baloon any day. At least, he didn’t tear his hair; it’s too short. He keeps it up with Gordon too but looks horrid. He tiped me. "_Carew_. It isn’t him. He’s very anxshus and says he can’t paint: says the crittics are right. He was a sad sight to see, walking around in his studio. He said would I sit to him for an angel. He stops walking and tries to do Pen quick. I think it’s muck. I wouldn’t like a tip from him, for if an artist can’t paint through grief what becomes of him? Do the others buy him for the Chantrey Bequest?" "That’s the lot so far," said Bob. And he added to his notes: "_Gordon_. It isn’t Gordon. He lent me a hundred pounds to invest in something to make hair curl. I said make it ninety and give me ten now, and he did. He didn’t tip me, but I don’t think him mean on that account." "That leaves only De Vere and Bramber," said Bob, "and she never seemed much stuck on either to my mind. But if they don’t say anything to me I shall begin to suspect." He said so to Bradstock, who called him a young devil. But about three days later Bob added to his notes: "_Bramber_. It isn’t Bramber. I met him in the park. He took me to the House and gave me a beastly lunch. But he didn’t notice it as he couldn’t eat and looked very pale and savidge. He tiped me. "_De Vere_. It’s not the poetry rotter. He wants me to stay with him and look after the dogs. He said if I had a sick one he’d rather have it than not. He said he was desprit. I don’t know why, but suppose it’s Pen. He tiped me." "Now where am I at?" he said, blankly. "I’ve written down it isn’t any of ’em. And that’s what granny says. But I don’t believe her." He chewed his pencil till it was in rags, and then a sudden idea struck him. "I’ll buy all Sherlock Holmes and read him right through," said Bob. "That’s the way to find out anything. I wish I knew the man that wrote him. I wonder if De Vere knows him? I’ll ask Baker to get a sick dog from the vet’s, and I’ll go down and stay with De Vere if I can make granny say ’yes.’ I wonder why old De Vere wants a sick dog, though. I can’t understand poets." It was no wonder Gordon wished he had a boy like Bob. *CHAPTER XIII.*