A leisurely step now made itself heard on the stairs below, and soon the surprised face of little Eddy appeared on the landing outside.
“How’s the game going?” cried Dick, suddenly bethinking himself that the great contest was still on.
“I don’t know,” answered the boy, in sullen tones, peering curiously into the room. “I haven’t been to the game. I’ve been up the river.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m going up to my room.”
“Well, go on then,” commanded Varrell. Eddy started on. “Eddy!” called Bosworth.
With a hasty movement, quite unlike the indolent slouch with which he had crawled upstairs, Eddy hurried back and stood in the doorway, expectant, his big eyes full of fear, his whole expression that of a dog cringing before a cruel master. The sight stirred Dick to the depths of his heart. If ever he had felt a doubt as to Varrell’s course, or a lurking suspicion, born of his sense of fair play, that Bosworth might after all be a comparatively innocent victim of appearances, the doubt and suspicion vanished in the presence of that abject figure, like raindrops on the surface of the sea.
“I’d like to speak to him a moment,” said Bosworth, nervously.
“No, you don’t!” cried Dick. “You’ve had your last speech with him.”
“Oh, let them talk,” said Varrell, giving his friend a sharp look. “Only nothing must pass between you,” he added, turning again to Bosworth. “If you are willing to back up against the wall there and have the boy stand at one side so that there’s a clear open space between you, and both face this way, we’ll go out in the entry out of hearing, and watch you through the door from a distance. Otherwise there had better be no conversation until after the search is over.”