“Oh, well,” smiled the doctor, thinking his son’s confusion rose from his reluctance to confess that he had thus damaged his best coat, “accidents will happen, my boy. We all meet such misfortunes occasionally.”
Don felt mean enough, and he regretted that he had thought of trying to hide the truth from his father, even though telling it might have led to a complete confession of his utter failure in the attempt to master his temper. His outraged conscience troubled and tortured him till he imagined guilt and shame must be written on his face so that all could see it and understand.
With this thought in his mind, he followed his father and aunt into the church, his face flushed and his eyes downcast. As he was about to pass through the second door, he distinctly heard these whispered words:
“There he is! Look at him!”
He lifted his eyes and saw a short distance away Dick Sterndale and Dolph Renwood, both gazing straight at him.
Scott’s face had been red before, but now there was such a rush of blood to his head that it actually turned purple. Involuntarily, he half lifted his wounded hand which had wrested the betraying knife from his antagonist, but the bandaged fingers were hidden by a glove, which he had succeeded in wearing, for all the difficulty in drawing it on. Then he passed on into the church, but with the desire strong upon him to confront and accuse his foe then and there.
“He did it,” said Sterndale, grimly, when Don had vanished. “His face gave him away.”
“I don’t like to think it of him even now,” Renwood declared, in a low tone. “I don’t like the fellow, but I didn’t think he’d stoop to such a dirty trick.”
“No more did I think so, but his nasty temper led him into it. He betrayed his guilt plainly enough when he saw us.”
“What’ll you do?”