"Don't bluff! Now, for the last time, will you give me what I have given you—trust?"
"I have nothing more to say," Lovell answered stiffly.
"And you, Scaife?"
"I am sorry, sir, that Beaumont-Greene has been such a fool. We lent him this money, because he wanted it badly; and he said he would pay us back before the end of the term."
"You stick to that story?"
"Why, yes, sir. Why should we tell you a lie?"
"Ah, why, indeed?" sighed Warde. Then his voice grew hard and sharp. The persuasiveness, the carefully-framed sentences, gave place to his curtest manner. "This matter," said he, "is out of my hands. The Head Master will deal with it. I must ask you for your keys, Lovell."
"And if I refuse to give them up?"
"Then we must break into your boxes. Thanks." He took the keys. "Follow me, please."
The pair followed him into the private side, upstairs, and into the sick-room. There were three beds in it; upon one sat Beaumont-Greene. His complexion turned a sickly drab when he saw Lovell and Scaife. He even glanced at the window with a hunted expression. The window was three stories from the ground, and heavily barred ever since a boy in delirium had tried to jump from it.