The doctor, at Cambridge, found Cecil Aviolet under arrest.
Sir Thomas, summoned by telegram, received him.
“Have you come up about this abominable business?”
“I’m here by chance, come up to give the boy a message from his mother. What’s happened?”
The doctor, consternation at his heart, rapped out his questions as one who had the right to information. But Sir Thomas resented nothing, observed nothing. He was nearly beside himself with fury.
“This—this boy, this young blackguard, has been had up—arrested for theft. By God, if I saw him now I believe I’d kill him. A rotter through and through, that’s what he is. My grandson! He’s a dirty, common thief, the young swine! He’s stolen—stolen!”
The old man’s voice was hoarse with passion, and the veins on his face and neck swelled dangerously.
“Stolen what? Money?”
“The same thing—silver. Silver cups and trophies, from other fellows. The young brute——”
Sir Thomas bellowed invectives and curses aloud.