"Wait," he asked a second later. Then his eyes closed. He threw himself into his characteristic attitude, while a deep frown furrowed his brow. From his position on the dais Bert slowly watched the expressions on the faces of those assembled, watched and waited. There was positive fear and alarm in the case of many of the youngsters. Middle School fellows were obviously stirred, though the presence of so many masters, and of the Head in particular, quelled any outburst. But the seniors were not so vastly impressed. There was resolution on some of the faces, indignation on others, and nowhere could he detect a sign of triumph at Clive's downfall. Nowhere. Jenkins stood with clenched fists, biting his lips and deep in thought. Roper appeared to be on the point of bursting into speech. His cheeks were puffed out and reddened, while his breast was absolutely swelling at the thought of the injustice which he considered had been done. Even Rawlings, the oldest boy present, looked sorry. There was none of the old truculence, the open scorn of his rival, for Clive had now become in every way his rival. More than once in the last year had Rawlings aspired to take the post of Captain of Ranleigh, but, as we have said, his unpopularity was too pronounced. And now that an election was imminent, it was certain that Clive, were he at the school, would have gained the coveted honour. That was Rawlings' fault. He should long ago have cultivated the friendship of his fellows. Now he had lost it for good, and without doubt should have left the school long ago. Why he remained on was never quite understood, though it was rumoured that some family trouble had caused him to stay. Be that as it might, he was still a Ranleighan, still unpopular, while of late, perhaps because his own bosom friends had left, he had become silent and taciturn, given to long fits of brooding, and sometimes to outbursts of passion.
No, there was merely sorrow on Rawlings' features, sorrow and a curiously dazed expression. And elsewhere only on the face of one was there any expression hostile to our hero. Mr. Axim scowled. He felt that he himself now stood as prisoner in the dock. For he it was who had caught Clive, he it was who had scoffed at his declaration of innocence, had summed up the evidence, had produced a motive for the acts, and had thus impressed the Head. And here was open rejection of his decision, of his arguments and of Clive's sentence. The position was, in fact, unique in Ranleigh's annals, unique perhaps in the annals of almost every school in existence.
"Monstrous!" he was muttering. "The evidence is clear. These people will be accusing me of the crime next. As if I were swayed by animus! As if it were not absolutely clear that Darrell is the guilty party.
"I—I protest," he cried, and then was silenced just as had been the case with Mr. Branson. The Head actually scowled at his assistant master.
"Allow me, if you please," he said, with acrid emphasis. And then he faced the School. Slowly he allowed his gaze to pass down the lines of boys assembled at their tables. He seemed to look closely into every face, seemed almost to ask the question on every occasion. Then he threw his head back and closed his eyes. But they were open a second later when he addressed the School in tones more solemn than any had ever known him to employ before.
"Ranleighans," he said, "I beg of you to listen to what I have to say. One of your old comrades has been declared to be guilty of the most dastardly conduct. I need not say more on that point, for the particulars are thoroughly known. Last night the evidence against him seemed to my mind to be conclusive. There was no fault that I could discover, and though Darrell himself denied the acts he still declined to give the name of one he suggested was the author of those fires. Now Seymour Primus demands a respite. I give it freely, willingly. If there be a doubt in this case, if delay may produce some evidence to clear Clive Darrell, then, in Heaven's name, let us delay. But let us also search our own consciences. That one whom Clive Darrell suggests is guilty, whose name he refused to give, is a Ranleigh boy. I beg of that boy to come boldly forward for his conscience' sake, for the sake of Clive Darrell."
The silence was positively trying. Bert felt almost as if he would explode if something did not soon happen to lessen the tension. Boys stood at their places absolutely pale and over-strung, unmanned almost by this ordeal. But none spoke. Not a boy came forward to proclaim his guilt and Clive's innocence. There was not so much as a sound for one full minute. And then there came a startling crash from the far end of the Hall. The clatter of feet was heard, the double doors were burst open, and there entered a small procession.
Susanne led the way, with Masters close behind him. Then came Hugh arm in arm with Trendall. The village sergeant of police followed closely, looking wonderfully important and just a little nonplussed at finding himself for a few brief moments the observed of all observers. But interest passed almost at once from him and those who led the procession. A solitary figure marching behind became the target for all observers.
"Clive Darrell!" shouted Bert. "Hooray for Clive Darrell!"