"I'm gaining on him," thought Clive. "We're bound to have him nicely, for he's going straight for the corner. He'll be round in a jiffy, and I shall be after him. Masters will see my lamp from the post he's taken and will be in splendid position to stop him. Bother the torch. My finger's slipped again."
A second earlier the flying figure had arrived within three feet of the end of the corridor, where it turned abruptly to the left. Clive reached the spot perhaps ten seconds later. He flashed his light round the corner and along the other corridor. There was nothing visible. Not a soul was in sight. Even Masters was not present, and was doubtless waiting round the corner at the far end. But where had this fugitive gone? Into the archway leading to the Bursar's room and to East Dormitory, or through the opening to the quad? Clive flashed his torch through the latter. No. There was no one in the quad. Then elsewhere? He sent the beam against the banisters of East Dormitory. No. There was no one. This fugitive seemed to have been actually swallowed by the surrounding walls. Clive was sorely puzzled and perplexed. He retraced his steps to the corner of the corridor, and peeped into a boot-room there. That, too, was empty. The man had been too clever for him. He had gone.
"Dived into that boot-room, without a doubt. Waited for me to pass and then went off back along the same route towards the Head's door. I'll go along there after him. Wonder whether he fired that paraffin? Must find that out. Why, even now a fire may be blazing. My word! To think that a chap could go in for such a caddish business."
But who was the man? Did Clive know? Had he recognised that fleeting figure?
There was a deep furrow across our hero's face. Even as he raced back along the corridor he was conscious of a feeling of unusual distress, of sadness almost, of despair at the thought of what must inevitably follow his discovery. For the miscreant was without question a Ranleigh boy. Clive had not seen his face—had seen little else, in fact, but legs rapidly moving and a flowing gown, above which was a head hidden beneath a hat pressed closely down upon it. But even figures have their own special features. Every individual almost has his own particular movements, something, however small, which differentiates them from others. And Clive knew the special run of this fugitive well. In a court of law, perhaps, his evidence was useless. Here, at Ranleigh, perhaps it was little better. Were he asked at that moment to say who the miscreant was he could merely shake his head.
"Couldn't actually dare to declare the fellow's name," he told himself as he raced up the corridor. "I feel sure. But others would doubt. They'd doubt naturally, and considering the circumstances, the excitement, the intermittent light, why, I may easily be mistaken. I daren't wreck a fellow's future on such flimsy evidence. Perhaps I'll nobble him yet. At any rate, I'll try my best. My word, what a slippery beggar!"
He was back at the Head's door now, to find it wide open, where no doubt he had flung it as he raced after this mysterious incendiary. The passage within was empty. He searched every corner with his torch. The corridor outside the Hall was equally vacant, and there was no one on the stairs leading to West and certain of the masters' rooms, nor on those giving access to North Dormitory.
"Then the beggar's back in the Head's room," he thought. "I'll go right in this time, close the door so that he can't try the same sort of business, and then nail him. George! The place smells of paraffin. He meant to have a proper flare while he was about it. Now, is he in the Head's study or not?"
No, he wasn't. At least, the place seemed empty. But a combination of misfortunes was pursuing Clive on this adventurous evening. To commence with, he had been taken by surprise by the crafty fellow he was watching, and had been tripped up nicely. And now, perhaps because the fall had injured it, his torch failed all of a sudden. Clive groped for a match-box, upset some ornament on the mantelpiece, felt his fingers light upon something remarkably like a match-box, and gripped the latter. Then he rapidly withdrew one of the matches and struck it against the box. A candlestick was within easy reach, and in a second he had the wick burning. It was giving off a good light, and he was holding it above his head so as the better to see his surroundings, when the door was pushed swiftly open, a figure bounced into the room, and in a twinkling our hero found himself gripped by the collar.