In his mind's eye, our poor John was gazing down a long lane with no turning at the end of it. Could he make his friend believe that Scaife had brought this thing to pass from no other motive than wishing to hurt mortally an enemy by the hand of a friend? No, never would such an ingenuous youth as Cæsar accept, or even listen to, such an abominable explanation.
"Good night," said John.
"I see you're rather sick with me, Jonathan. Remember, you made me speak. To-morrow morning we'll have a good laugh over it. We'll walk to the Haunted House, and I'll tell my tale. I shall be on my way in less than an hour."
John went back to his room. The necessity for silence and thought had become imperative. What could he do? It was certain that Warde was waiting and watching. He had inexhaustible patience. Desmond, not the Demon, would be caught and expelled. John returned to Desmond's room.
"You've told me so much," he said; "tell me a little more. How are you going to do it?"
"To do what?"
"Get out of the house? Get a bike—and all that?"
"Easy. Lovell went out that way, and others. You jump from the sill of the first landing window into the horse-chestnut. One must be able to jump, of course; but I can jump. Then you shin down the tree, nip through the shrubbery, and over the locked wicket-gate."
"Yes," John said slowly, "over the gate."
"I borrowed a bike from one of the Cycle Corps, and have ridden it in the garden, in a bush to the right of the gate."