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 ass! 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 Saturday, 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 appetite for forbidden fruit; exciting in Desmond also, not
an appetite 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