"Well, if I surrender, if I admit that you are the stronger, that you have defeated me, won't that be enough?"

"Eh? I don't quite take you."

"You are the stronger." John's voice was very miserable. "I have tried to dissuade him, as you knew I should try, and I have failed. Isn't that enough? You have your triumph. But now be generous. Turn round and use your strength the other way. Make him give up this folly. You don't want to see your own pal--sacked?"

"Precious little chance of that!"

"There is the chance."

Scaife hesitated. Did some worthier impulse stir within him? Who can tell? His keen eye softened, and then hardened again.

"No," he said quickly. "If I agree to what you propose, it is, after all, you who triumph, not I. And I doubt if I could stop him now, even if I tried." He laughed again, for the third time, savagely. "You are hoist with your own petard, Verney. You wanted to see me sacked; and now that there is a chance in a thousand that Caesar will be sacked, you squirm. I swore to get my knife into you, and, by G.o.d, I've done it."

John went out, very pale. He pa.s.sed through into the private side, and tapped at Warde's study door. Mrs. Warde's voice bade him enter. She looked at John's face. Afterwards she testified that he looked singularly cool and self-possessed.

"I wish to see Mr. Warde," he said.

"He's dining at the Head Master's."

"Will he be in soon?"

"I--er--don't know. Perhaps not. I wouldn't wait for him, Verney, if I were you."

"Thank you," said John. "Good night."

He went back to his room. In Mrs. Warde's eyes he had read--what?

Excitement? Apprehension? Suddenly, conviction came to him that this dinner at the Head Master's was a blind. Why, during that very afternoon, Warde had mentioned casually to Scaife that he was dining out. He had deliberately informed the Demon that the coast was clear.

And at this moment, probably, Warde lay concealed near the chestnut tree, waiting, watching, about to pounce upon the--wrong man!

The temptation to cry "_Cave!_" tore at his vitals. Till this moment the tyranny of honour had never oppressed John. Having resolved to tell Warde that he meant to break his word, it may seem inexplicable that he shouldn't go a step further and break his word without warning the house-master. Upon such nice points of conscience hang issues of world-wide importance. To John, at any rate, the difference between the two paths out of a tangled wood was greater than it might appear to some of us. Warde had trusted him implicitly: could he bring himself to violate Warde's confidence without giving the man notice?

However, what he might have done under pressure must remain a matter of surmise. At this moment a third path became visible. And down it John rushed, without consideration as to where it might lead. The one thing plain at this crisis was the certainty that he had discovered a plan of action which would save two things he valued supremely--his friendship for Caesar and his word of honour.

Here we are to liberty to speculate what John would have done had he considered dispa.s.sionately the consequences of an action to be accomplished at once or not at all. But he had not time to consider anything except the fact that action would put to rout some very tormenting thoughts.

He crumpled his bed, disarranged his room, and put on a cap and a thin overcoat, as all lights in the boys' side of the Manor were extinguished. Then he stole out of his room, and crept to the window at the end of the pa.s.sage. A moment later, he had squeezed through it, and was standing upon the sill outside, gazing fearfully at the void beneath, and the distance between the sill and the branch in front of him. Afterwards, he confessed that this moment was the most difficult.

He was an active boy, but he had never jumped such a chasm. If he missed the bough----

To hesitate meant shameful retreat. John felt the sweat break upon him; craven fear clutched his heart-strings, and set them a-jangling.

He jumped.

The ease with which he caught the branch was such a physical relief that he almost forgot his errand. He slid quietly down the tree, pausing as he reached the bottom of it. The moon was just rising above the horizon, but under the trees the darkness was Stygian. John pushed quietly through the shrubberies, treading as lightly as possible. Every moment he expected to see the flash of a lantern, to hear Warde's voice, to feel an arresting hand upon the shoulder. It was quite impossible to guess with any reasonable accuracy what part of the garden Warde had selected for a hiding-place. Very soon he reached the edge of the shrubbery, and gazed keenly into the moonlit, park-like meadow below him. Peer as he might, he could see no trace of Warde. A dozen trees might conceal him. Perhaps with the omniscience of the house-master, he had divined that the wicket-gate was the ultimate place of egress.

Perhaps the wicket had been used for a similar purpose when Warde himself was a boy at the Manor. It was vital to John's plan that Warde should see him without recognizing him, and give chase. The chase would end in capture at some point as reasonably far from the Manor as possible. Warde might ask for explanations, but none would be forthcoming till the morrow. Meantime, the coast would be clear for Desmond. John, in fine, was playing the part of a pilot-engine.

But where was Warde?

The question answered itself within a minute, and after a fashion absolutely unforeseen. As John was crossing from the shrubbery to the wicket he looked back. To his horror, he saw lights in the boys' side, light in the window of Scaife's room. Instantly John divined what had come to pa.s.s, and cursed himself for a fool. Warde, from some coign of vantage, had seen a boy leave his house. Why should he try to arrest the boy? why should he risk the humiliation of running after him, and, perhaps, failing to capture him? No, no; men forty were not likely to work in that boyish fashion. Warde had adopted an infinitely better plan. a.s.sured that a boy had left the house, he had nothing to do but walk round the rooms and find out which one was absent. He had begun with Scaife. Next to Scaife was the room belonging to the Head of the House; then came John's room, and then Caesar's. Long before Warde reached Caesar's room, Caesar would have heard him. Caesar, at any rate, was saved. John crept back under cover of the shrubberies. He saw the light flicker out of Scaife's window, and shine more steadily in the next room. The window of this room was open, and John could hear the voice of Warde and the Head of the House. John waited. And then the light shone in Desmond's room. John crouched against the wall, trembling. If Caesar had not heard the voices, if he were fully dressed, if---- Suddenly he caught Warde's rea.s.suring words: "Ah, Desmond, sorry to disturb you. Good night."

John waited. Very soon Scaife would come to Desmond's room. Ah! Just so.

The night was so still that he could hear quite plainly the boys'

m.u.f.fled voices.

"What's up?"

"Warde is going his rounds. Perhaps he smells a rat."

And then whispers! John strained his ears. Only a word or two more reached him. "Verney---- D----d interfering sneak! Let's see!" It was Scaife who was speaking.

John heard his own door opened and shut. Scaife, then, had discovered his absence, and naturally leaped to the conclusion that he had warned Warde. Let him think so! The boys were still whispering together. "Not to-night," Scaife said decisively. "No, no," Desmond replied.

John wondered what remained to be done. Warde, of course, would satisfy himself that no boy in his house was missing except John, before he p.r.o.nounced him the absentee. Poor Warde! This would be a hard knock for him. John's thoughts were jostling each other freely, when he recalled Desmond's words: "I have one more chance before the term is over." He had wished to clear the way for his friend, not to block it. Then he remembered the terms of the bet, and laughed.

He ran back to the wicket, found the bicycle, lit the lamp, and hoisted the machine over the gate. Then he laughed again. After all, this escaping from bondage, this midnight adventure beneath the impending sword of expulsion, thrilled him to the marrow.

When John returned on Sunday to the Manor, shortly after the doors were unlocked in the morning, he found Dumbleton awaiting him. Dumber's face expressed such amazement and consternation that John nearly laughed in spite of himself.

"It's all hup, sir," said the butler. Only in moments of intense excitement did Dumber misplace or leave out the aspirate. "You're to come with me at once to Mr. Warde's study."

John followed the butler into the familiar room. Warde was not down yet, but evidently Dumber had instructions not to leave the prisoner. John stared at the writing-desk. Then he turned to Dumbleton, and said carelessly--

"This means the sack, eh, Dumber?"

"Yes, sir. 'Ow could you do it, sir? Such a well-be'aved gentleman, too!"

"Thank you, Dumber." John took an envelope from the desk, and wrote Scaife's name upon it.

"Dumber, please give Mr. Scaife this--with my compliments. It is, as you see, a bill of fare."

"Very good, sir."

John placed the card into the envelope and handed both to Dumbleton.

"With my compliments!"

"Certainly, sir."

"And _after_ Chapel."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later Warde came in. Dumbleton went out immediately with a sorrowful, backward glance at John. The good fellow looked terribly bewildered. For John's face, John's deportment, had amazed him. John was quite unaware of it, but he looked astonishingly well. Excitement had flushed his cheek and lent a sparkle to his grey eyes. He had enjoyed his ride to town and back; he had slept soundly under the lee of a haystack; and he had washed his face and hands in the horse-trough at the foot of Sudbury Hill. And the certainty that Desmond was safe, that in the end he, John, had triumphed over Scaife, filled his soul with joy. Warde, on the other hand, looked wretched; he had pa.s.sed a sleepless night; he was pale, haggard, gaunt.

"What have you to say, Verney?"

"Nothing, sir."