“What, Lady Louisa in tears! Here's the ink bottle; do let me catch the crystal drops,” said Frank Digby, who accompanied Reginald in search of his brother.
“Oh, Reginald!” exclaimed Louis, regardless of Frank's nonsense, “some one has left a key to my exercises on my books, and Mr. Witworth has just found it. What shall I do?”
“Some one has left,” ejaculated Frank. “That's a good story, Louis; only one can't quite swallow it, you know. Who would leave it, eh?”
“How? where, Louis?” said Reginald.
“It was just here it was found. I am sure I cannot think who put it there.”
“Well of all the”—began Frank; “my astonishment positively chokes me. Louis, are you not ashamed of yourself?”
“Oh, Frank! I am speaking the truth; I am, indeed, I am—Reginald, I am, you know I am.”
“It is very strange,” remarked Reginald, who was standing with a clouded, unsatisfied brow, and did not exhibit that enthusiasm respecting his innocence which Louis expected from him. Reginald knew too much, and dared not yet be certain when appearances were so sadly against him.
“Reginald, dear Reginald, tell me,” cried Louis, almost frantically; “surely you believe me?”
“Believe you!” echoed Frank, scornfully; “he knows you too well, and so do I. Remember last year, Louis: you'd better have thought of it sooner.”