a child could find you
out. And you--you have dared to play with such an edged tool as forgery.
Now, do the one thing which is left to you: make a clean breast of it to
me--at once."

In imposing this command, a command which he knew would be obeyed,
inasmuch as he perceived that he dominated the weak, grovelling
creature in front of him, Warde overlooked the possibility that this
boy's confession might implicate other boys. Already he had formed in
his mind a working hypothesis to account for this forged letter. The
fellow, no doubt, was in debt to some Harrow townsman.

"For whom did you _steal_ this money? To whom did you pay it to-day?
Answer!"

And he was answered.

"I owed the money to Scaife and Lovell."

Then he told the story of the card-playing. At the last word he fell on
his knees, blubbering.

"Get up," said Warde, sharply. "Pull yourself together if you can."

The master began to walk up and down the room, frowning and biting his
lips. From time to time he glanced at Beaumont-Greene. Seeing his utter
collapse, he rang the bell, answered by the ever-discreet Dumbleton.

"Dumbleton, take Mr. Beaumont-Greene to the sick-room. There is no one
in it, I believe?"

"No, sir."

"You will fetch what he may require for the night; quietly, you
understand."

"Very good, sir."

"Follow Dumbleton," Warde addressed Beaumont-Greene. "You will consider
yourself under arrest. Your meals will be brought to you. You will hold
no communication with anybody except Dumbleton and me; you will send no
messages; you will write no notes. Do you hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go."

Dumbleton opened the door. Young man and servant passed out and into the
passage beyond. Warde waited one moment, then he followed them into the
passage; but instead of going upstairs, he paused for an instant with
his fingers upon the handle of the door which led from the private side
to the boys' quarters. He sighed as he passed through.

At this moment Lovell was sitting in his room alone with Scaife. They
had no suspicion of what had taken place in the study. In the afternoon
there had been a match with an Old Harrovian team, and both Scaife and
Lovell had played for the School. But as yet neither had got his
Flannels. As Warde passed through the private side door, Scaife was
saying angrily--

"I believe Challoner" (Challoner was captain of the football Eleven and
a monitor) "has a grudge against us. If we had a chance--and we had-