"You are the stronger." John's voice was very miserable. "I have tried to dissuade him, as you knew I should try, and I have failed. Isn't that enough? You have your triumph. But now be generous. Turn round and use your strength the other way. Make him give up this folly. You don't want to see your own pal—sacked?"
"Precious little chance of that!"
"There is the chance."
Scaife hesitated. Did some worthier impulse stir within him? Who can tell? His keen eye softened, and then hardened again.
"No," he said quickly. "If I agree to what you propose, it is, after all, you who triumph, not I. And I doubt if I could stop him now, even if I tried." He laughed again, for the third time, savagely. "You are hoist with your own petard, Verney. You wanted to see me sacked; and now that there is a chance in a thousand that Cæsar will be sacked, you squirm. I swore to get my knife into you, and, by God, I've done it."
John went out, very pale. He passed through into the private side, and tapped at Warde's study door. Mrs. Warde's voice bade him enter. She looked at John's face. Afterwards she testified that he looked singularly cool and self-possessed.
"I wish to see Mr. Warde," he said.
"He's dining at the Head Master's."
"Will he be in soon?"
"I—er—don't know. Perhaps not. I wouldn't wait for him, Verney, if I were you."