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“If they did steal the Baby,” Noel went on, “they will be tracked by the lordly perambulator. You can disguise a baby in rags and walnut juice, but there isn’t any disguise dark enough to conceal a perambulator’s person.”

“You might disguise it as a wheelbarrow,” said Dicky.

“Or cover it with leaves,” said H. O., “like the robins.”

We told him to shut up and not gibber, but afterwards we had to own that even a young brother may sometimes talk sense by accident.

For we took the short cut home from the lane–it begins with a large gap in the hedge and the grass and weeds trodden down by the hasty feet of persons who were late for church and in too great a hurry to go round by the road. Our house is next to the church, as I think I have said before, some time.

The short cut leads to a stile at the edge of a bit of wood (the Parson’s Shave, they call it, because it belongs to him). The wood has not been shaved for some time, and it has grown out beyond the stile; and here, among the hazels and chestnuts and young dog-wood bushes, we saw something white. We felt it was our duty to investigate, even if the white was only the under side of the tail of a dead rabbit caught in a trap. It was not–it was part of the perambulator. I forgot whether I said that the perambulator was enamelled white–not the kind of enamelling you do at home with Aspinall’s and the hairs of the brush come out and it is gritty-looking, but smooth, like the handles of ladies’ very best lace parasols. And whoever had abandoned the helpless perambulator in that lonely spot had done exactly as H. O. said, and covered it with leaves, only they were green and some of them had dropped off.

The others were wild with excitement. Now or never, they thought, was a chance to be real detectives. Oswald alone retained a calm exterior. It was he who would not go straight to the police station.

He said: “Let’s try and ferret out something for ourselves before we tell the police. They always have a clue directly they hear about the finding of the body. And besides, we might as well let Alice be in anything there is going. And besides, we haven’t had our dinners yet.”

This argument of Oswald’s was so strong and powerful–his arguments are often that, as I dare say you have noticed–that the others agreed. It was Oswald, too, who showed his artless brothers why they had much better not take the deserted perambulator home with them.

“The dead body, or whatever the clew is, is always left exactly as it is found,” he said, “till the police have seen it, and the coroner, and the inquest, and the doctor, and the sorrowing relations. Besides, suppose some one saw us with the beastly thing, and thought we had stolen it; then they would say, ‘ What have you done with the Baby?‘ and then where should we be?”

Oswald’s brothers could not answer this question, but once more Oswald’s native eloquence and far-seeing discerningness conquered.

“Anyway,” Dicky said, “let’s shove the derelict a little further under cover.”

So we did.

Then we went on home. Dinner was ready and so were Alice and Daisy, but Dora was not there.

“She’s got a–well, she’s not coming to dinner anyway,” Alice said when we asked. “She can tell you herself afterwards what it is she’s got.”

Oswald thought it was headache, or pain in the temper, or in the pinafore, so he said no more, but as soon as Mrs. Pettigrew had helped us and left the room he began the thrilling tale of the forsaken perambulator. He told it with the greatest thrillingness any one could have, but Daisy and Alice seemed almost unmoved. Alice said: