Free Mystery of Holly Lane by Enid Blyton Page B

“Either the money is still there, hidden, and the old fellow has forgotten where, or someone’s taken it who knew it was hidden. If so, it can only be one of his relatives, I should think. Quite a straightforward case. Anyway I somehow don’t want to have anything more to do with Goon, after this Buster business. I just can’t bear the sight of him.”
    “Right. Then we don’t count this as a mystery,” said Daisy. “We’ll just go on hoping. What I was going to say was that the person who would really know who visited the old man this morning would be that Frenchman — Mr. Henri. He lies on that couch and watches everyone who passes — and he has a jolly good view of the bungalow’s front door.”
    “Yes. You’re right,” said Fatty. “He would be the first one we’d ask for a bit of information. But I think we’ll leave this to Goon. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit afraid of somebody asking about a window-cleaner! Somebody may have spotted Larry — and we’d look rather foolish if it came out about his cleaning the windows.”
    “I always thought it was rather a silly thing to ask me to do,” said Larry. “I said so at the time.”
    “Well, maybe it was a bit mad,” said Fatty. “We’ll forget it. Come on — whose deal is it? We’ll just have time for a game before tea.”
    They had a hilarious game, and an even more hilarious tea. During the game, Buster discovered that by sitting on a chair, he could reach his plate of potted-meat biscuits, and he devoured every one of them without being noticed. He then quietly jumped down and went and lay by Bets.
    “Isn’t he good and quiet today?” said Bets, patting him. “He’s usually too silly for words when we play cards and don’t take any notice of him. Last time he smacked all my cards out of my hand, I remember. Didn’t you, Buster?”
    “Wuff,” said Buster, in a quiet voice. He was beginning to feel very guilty.
    Larry tickled him. Buster didn’t jump up and caper round as he usually did. He just let Larry tickle him. Larry looked at him closely.
    “Why don’t you wag your tail?” he said. “I say — don’t you think Buster’s gone rather quiet? Buster, old fellow, what’s up?”
    Buster’s tail remained quite still, without a wag. Bets looked at him in alarm. “He can’t be feeling well! Buster! Good dog! Stand up, Buster, and wag your tail!”
    Buster stood up, looking the picture of misery, head down and tail down. What a fuss the children made of him! He was patted and petted, stroked and fondled.
    “Ought we to take him to the vet?” said Bets. “Fatty, do you think anything’s wrong?”
    “We’ll try him with one of his favourite potted-meat biscuits,” said Fatty, getting up. He saw the empty plate at once.
    “BUSTER! You greedy pig! How dare you show such bad manners when I take you out to tea! I’m ashamed of you. Go to the corner!”
    “Oh, what’s he done?” cried Bets, as poor Buster walked to the nearest corner, and sat there, face to the wall.
    “Eaten every single one of his biscuits whilst we weren’t looking,” said Fatty. “I never heard a single crunch, did you? Bad dog, Buster! No, Bets, you’re not to go to him. Look at the plate next to his biscuits, too. It looks as if Buster has been taking a few licks at that macaroon!”
    “Well, I’d rather he was naughty than ill,” said Bets, making up her mind to slip Buster a bit of macaroon at tea-time. “Oh, Buster! What a thing to do!”
    Buster made a moaning sound, and hung his head still more. “Take no notice of him,” said Fatty, “another word from us and he’ll burst into tears.”
    “It wouldn’t matter. He’d lick them all up,” said Bets. “That’s the best of being a dog — if you upset a dish you can always lick up the mess.”
    “Now don’t even mention Buster’s name,” said Fatty, firmly. “He’s in disgrace. Come on — it’s my turn to play.”
    Buster had to remain in the corner while the five children had