"Where do you come from?" demanded Scrafton, turning back to Harry, or rather upon him, with his red-rimmed eyes glaring out of an absolutely bloodless face.
Harry answered the question with his head held high.
"Son of Henry Ringrose, the ironmaster?"
"I am."
"I thought so! A word with you, ma'am," cried Scrafton—and himself led the way into Mrs. Bickersteth's study.
CHAPTER XIX.
ASSAULT AND BATTERY.
Harry was left alone in the hall. The boys were in the basement, putting on their boots. There were high words in the study, and yet Scrafton seemed to be speaking much below his normal pitch. Harry sauntered into the deserted schoolroom to avoid eavesdropping. And as if in spite of him, the voices rose, and this much reached his ears:
"I tell you it will ruin the school!"
"Then let me tell you, Mr. Scrafton, that the school is mine, and I have done it with my eyes open."