But John looked worried. He perceived that Caesar's finely-formed hands were trembling, whenever they were still.

"Harry," said he--he never called Desmond Harry except when they were at home--"Harry, what's wrong?"

"Why, nothing--nothing, that is, which amounts to anything."

"Harry, you are the worst liar in England. Something is wrong. Can't you tell me? You must. I'm hanged if I leave you till you do tell me."

He looked steadily at Desmond. In his clear grey eyes were tiny, dancing flecks of golden brown, which Desmond had seen once or twice before,--which came whenever John was profoundly moved. The dancing flecks transformed themselves in Desmond's fancy into sprites, the airy creatures of John's will, imposing John's wishes and commands.

"Scaife said I might tell you, if I liked."

"Scaife?" John drew in his breath. "Then Scaife wanted you to tell me; I am sure of that." He felt his way by the dim light of smouldering suspicion. If Scaife wanted John to know anything, it was because such knowledge must prove pain, not pleasure. John did not say this. Then, very abruptly, Desmond continued. "You swear that what I'm about to tell you will be regarded as sacred?"

"Yes."

"It is a matter which concerns Scaife and me, not you. You won't interfere?"

"No."

"I'm going to London."

"_What?_"

"Don't look at me like that, you silly old a.s.s! It's not--not what you think," he laughed nervously. "I have bet Scaife twenty-five pounds, the amount of my debt in fact, that the bill-of-fare of to-night's supper at the Carlton Hotel will be handed to him after Chapel to-morrow morning.

I bike up to town, and bike back. If I don't go this Sat.u.r.day, I have one more chance before the term is over. That's all."

"That's all," repeated John, stupefied.

"If you can show me an easier way to make a 'pony,' I'll be obliged to you."

"Scaife egged you on to this piece of folly?"

"No, he didn't."

"You may as well make a clean breast of it."

Bit by bit John extracted the facts. Behind them, of course, stood Scaife, loving evil for evil's sake, planting evil, gleaning evil, deliberately setting about the devil's work. Desmond, it appeared, had persuaded Scaife not to go to town till the Lord's match was over. Since the match Scaife had spent two nights in London, whetting an inordinate appet.i.te for forbidden fruit; exciting in Desmond also, not an appet.i.te for the fruit itself, but for the mad excitement of a perilous adventure. Then, when the thoughtless "I'd like a lark of that sort" had been spoken, came the derisive answer, "You haven't the nerve for it."

And then again the subtle leading of an ardent and self-willed nature into the mora.s.s, Scaife pretending to dissuade a friend, entreating him to consider the risk, urging him to go to bed, as if he were a headstrong child. And finally Desmond's challenge, "Bet you I have the nerve," and its acceptance, protestingly, by the other, and permission given that John should be told.

"And it's to-night?"

"I mean to have that bill-of-fare. Do you think I'd back out now?"

In his mind's eye, our poor John was gazing down a long lane with no turning at the end of it. Could he make his friend believe that Scaife had brought this thing to pa.s.s from no other motive than wishing to hurt mortally an enemy by the hand of a friend? No, never would such an ingenuous youth as Caesar accept, or even listen to, such an abominable explanation.

"Good night," said John.

"I see you're rather sick with me, Jonathan. Remember, you made me speak. To-morrow morning we'll have a good laugh over it. We'll walk to the Haunted House, and I'll tell my tale. I shall be on my way in less than an hour."

John went back to his room. The necessity for silence and thought had become imperative. What could he do? It was certain that Warde was waiting and watching. He had inexhaustible patience. Desmond, not the Demon, would be caught and expelled. John returned to Desmond's room.

"You've told me so much," he said; "tell me a little more. How are you going to do it?"

"To do what?"

"Get out of the house? Get a bike--and all that?"

"Easy. Lovell went out that way, and others. You jump from the sill of the first landing window into the horse-chestnut. One must be able to jump, of course; but I can jump. Then you shin down the tree, nip through the shrubbery, and over the locked wicket-gate."

"Yes," John said slowly, "over the gate."

"I borrowed a bike from one of the Cycle Corps, and have ridden it in the garden, in a bush to the right of the gate."

John nodded.

"It's moonlight after ten; I shall enjoy the ride immensely."

"You will try to get back into the house at night?"

"Too dangerous. Lovell did it; but the Demon marches in boldly just before Chapel. He may have slipped out on half a dozen errands as soon as the door is opened in the morning. I shall sleep under a stack. It's a lovely night. Now, old Jonathan, I hope you're satisfied that I'm not either the fool or the sinner you took me to be."

"Look here, Harry. If I appeal to you in the name of our friendship; if I ask you for my sake and for my mother's sake not to do this thing----"

"Jonathan, I must go. Don't make it harder than it is."

"Then it _is_ hard?"

"I won't whine about that. I courted this adventure, and, by Jove! I'm going to see it through. The odds are a hundred to one against my being nailed."

"All right; I'll say no more. Good night."

"Good night, old Jonathan."

John went back to his room, waited three minutes, and then, in despair, made up his mind to seek Scaife. He felt certain that the Demon's extraordinary luck was about to stand between him and expulsion. Desmond would be caught red-handed, but not he. John ground his teeth with rage at the thought. He found Scaife alone--at work on cricketing accounts.

"Hullo, Verney!"

"Caesar tells me that he is going up to London to-night."

"Oh, he told you that, did he?"

"Yes; you wished him to tell me?"

"Perhaps." Scaife laughed louder.

"You want to prove to me," said John slowly, "that you are the stronger?"

"Perhaps." Scaife laughed.