“Yes, come in, my dear boy. You have just arrived from the Manor?”
“Yes, sir,” said Macey.
“How is Vane?”
Macey tried to answer, but something seemed to rise in his throat, and when he did force out his words they sounded low and husky.
“Awfully bad, sir. The doctor took me up, but he doesn’t know anybody. Keeps going on about fighting.”
“Poor lad,” said the rector, with a sigh. “But, look here, Macey, you must hear this. The constable here—Bates—has come to announce to me his belief that the assault was committed by your fellow-pupil.”
“Distin?” cried Macey, sharply, and as he turned to him the Creole’s jaw dropped.
“Yes, but it is of course a mistake, and has been disproved. I was pointing out to Bates here the folly of an obstinate persistence in such an idea, when you entered.” Then turning once more to the constable, “Come, my man, you see now that you are in the wrong.”
“No, sir,” said the constable, “I didn’t see it before, but I feel surer now that I’m right.”
“What?”