"Then we must break into your boxes. Thanks." He took the keys. "Follow
me, please."

The pair followed him into the private side, upstairs, and into the
sick-room. There were three beds in it; upon one sat Beaumont-Greene.
His complexion turned a sickly drab when he saw Lovell and Scaife. He
even glanced at the window with a hunted expression. The window was
three stories from the ground, and heavily barred ever since a boy in
delirium had tried to jump from it.

"Your night-things will be brought to you," said Warde.

He went out slowly. The boys heard the key turn in the massive lock.
They were prisoners. Scaife walked up to Beaumont-Greene.

"You told Warde about the bridge?"

"Ye-es; I had to. Scaife, don't look at me like that. Lovell"--his voice
broke into a terrified scream--"don't let him hit me. I couldn't help
it--I swear I----"

"You cur!" said Scaife. "I wouldn't touch you with a forty-foot pole."

Just what passed between Warde and the Head Master must be surmised.
Carefully hidden in Lovell's boxes were found cards and markers. Upon
the latter remained the results of the last game played, and under the
winning column a rough calculation in pounds, shillings, and pence.
There were no names.

Next day, during first school, a notice came round to each Form to be in
the Speech-room at 8.30. Not a boy knew or guessed the reason of this
summons. The Manorites, aware that three of their House were in the
sick-room, believed that an infectious disease had broken out. Only
Desmond, John, and the Caterpillar experienced heart-breaking fears that
a catastrophe had taken place.

When the School assembled at half-past eight, the monitors came in,
followed by the Head Master in cap and gown. Then, a moment later, the
School Custos entered with Scaife. They sat down upon a small bench near
the door. Immediately the whispers, the shuffling of feet, the
occasional cough, died down into a thrilling silence. The Head Master
stood up.

He was a man of singularly impressive face and figure. And his voice had
what may be described as an edge to it--the cutting quality so
invaluable to any speaker who desires to make a deep impression upon his
audience. He began his address in the clear, cold accents of one who
sets forth facts which can neither be controverted nor ignored. Slowly,
inexorably, without wasting a word or a second, he told the School what
had happened. Then he paused.

As his voice melted away, the