It is hard to understand how great a thing this was for him to do. Skelding was a man who liked companionship. He was not given to the habit of solitude, and he desired friends. But he knew that, without doubt, he was cutting himself off from the only men who would be friendly toward him while he remained in college.
He had been stamped with the odious brand of Chickering, and other men would not care to associate with him. Nevertheless, he felt better.
“I’ll go it alone,” he said grimly. “It’s the best thing I can do now.”
Then he thought of Defarge, and he felt a sudden sympathy for him. They were both outcasts. Perhaps they might strike up a friendship. A few seconds later he was on the way to the room of Bertrand.
Skelding did not pause to knock. Turning the knob quietly, he entered the room. Defarge, thin, haggard, wild-looking, was standing by a table, loading a revolver. He muttered to himself:
“It’s my only way to escape! I feel that he has released me from the spell, so that I am my own master now; but he may put it in me the next time we meet, and I shall be the slave of his devilish eyes! He must die!”
“Defarge!”
Skelding spoke, and, with a little cry, Bertrand whirled round, pointing the revolver at the newcomer. The hand that held the weapon shook violently.
“My dear fellow,” said Gene, stepping forward, “you could not hit a house that was ten feet away. Your nerves are in terrible shape, my boy.”