"What is there between you and that man Scrafton?" asked Harry, and for the life of him he could steady his voice no longer. His very lip was trembling now.
"Which man Scrafton?" asked Lowndes, beginning to smile.
"You know as well as I do!" Harry almost shouted. "The other master in the school at Teddington—the man whose existence you pretended not to know of when I met you that afternoon on Ham Common. I ask you what there is between you. I ask you why you pretended there was nothing that Saturday afternoon—that Monday morning when you came to intercept him and pretended you had come to see me. I ask you what there was between that ruffian and—my father!"
His voice was almost breaking in his passion and his agony, but he was no longer nervous and self-conscious. That agony of doubt and of suspicion—that passionate determination to know the truth—had already floated him beyond the shoals of self. Lowndes waved a soothing hand, and his tone altered instantly. It was as though he realised that he was dealing with a dangerous fellow.
"Steady, Ringrose, steady!" said he. "You must answer me one question if you want answers to all those."
And there was a touch of the old kindness in his tone, a strange and disconcerting touch, for it sounded genuine.
"As many as you like—I have nothing to hide," cried Harry. And he had the satisfaction of making Lowndes wince.
"What makes you think I am acquainted with the man you mention?"
"What makes me think it?" echoed Harry, with a hard laugh. "Why, I've seen you together!"
"When?" cried Lowndes.