“And I have only one enemy—Slegge,” he thought to himself, as he softly blew out the candle and crept back into bed; but it was long ere sleep came, for the writing, run by the blotting-paper but still vivid, seemed to dance before his eyes, and as he now mentally read it: “It was Glyn Severn who stole the Prince’s belt.”
And it was with this to form the subject of his dreams that he fell fast asleep.
On the following morning Glyn entered the class-room early and proceeded to Slegge’s desk.
“Just as I thought,” he said, and he took up one of the writing folio books which lay with other volumes on the desk-cover.
There was no one else in the theatre at that early hour, and Glyn had time to compare as he wished certain of the letters and capitals in Slegge’s handwriting with the wording on the blotting-paper.
“It was he; there can be no doubt,” he exclaimed, and he went out of the room, making for the playground, intending to find his detractor; but he was not to be seen.
Fortune, however, favoured him as he was making his way back to the schoolhouse, for near the boys’ gardens he suddenly caught sight of the object of his search.
“I say, Slegge,” he said, approaching the lad, “I want to talk to you.”
It did not seem to be quite the same self-confident bully of the day previous who responded, “Eh? You do, Severn? What’s up?”
“Come into the class-room,” said Severn. “I want you.”