"Thank you," said John. "Good night."
He went back to his room. In Mrs. Warde's eyes he had read—what? Excitement? Apprehension? Suddenly, conviction came to him that this dinner at the Head Master's was a blind. Why, during that very afternoon, Warde had mentioned casually to Scaife that he was dining out. He had deliberately informed the Demon that the coast was clear. And at this moment, probably, Warde lay concealed near the chestnut tree, waiting, watching, about to pounce upon the—wrong man!
The temptation to cry "Cave!" tore at his vitals. Till this moment the tyranny of honour had never oppressed John. Having resolved to tell Warde that he meant to break his word, it may seem inexplicable that he shouldn't go a step further and break his word without warning the house-master. Upon such nice points of conscience hang issues of world-wide importance. To John, at any rate, the difference between the two paths out of a tangled wood was greater than it might appear to some of us. Warde had trusted him implicitly: could he bring himself to violate Warde's confidence without giving the man notice?
However, what he might have done under pressure must remain a matter of surmise. At this moment a third path became visible. And down it John rushed, without consideration as to where it might lead. The one thing plain at this crisis was the certainty that he had discovered a plan of action which would save two things he valued supremely—his friendship for Cæsar and his word of honour.
Here we are to liberty to speculate what John would have done had he considered dispassionately the consequences of an action to be accomplished at once or not at all. But he had not time to consider anything except the fact that action would put to rout some very tormenting thoughts.
He crumpled his bed, disarranged his room, and put on a cap and a thin overcoat, as all lights in the boys' side of the Manor were extinguished. Then he stole out of his room, and crept to the window at the end of the passage. A moment later, he had squeezed through it, and was standing upon the sill outside, gazing fearfully at the void beneath, and the distance between the sill and the branch in front of him. Afterwards, he confessed that this moment was the most difficult. He was an active boy, but he had never jumped such a chasm. If he missed the bough——
To hesitate meant shameful retreat. John felt the sweat break upon him; craven fear clutched his heart-strings, and set them a-jangling.
He jumped.
The ease with which he caught the branch was such a physical relief that he almost forgot his errand. He slid quietly down the tree, pausing as he reached the bottom of it. The moon was just rising above the horizon, but under the trees the darkness was Stygian. John pushed quietly through the shrubberies, treading as lightly as possible. Every moment he expected to see the flash of a lantern, to hear Warde's voice, to feel an arresting hand upon the shoulder. It was quite impossible to guess with any reasonable accuracy what part of the garden Warde had selected for a hiding-place. Very soon he reached the edge of the shrubbery, and gazed keenly into the moonlit, park-like meadow below him. Peer as he might, he could see no trace of Warde. A dozen trees might conceal him. Perhaps with the omniscience of the house-master, he had divined that the wicket-gate was the ultimate place of egress. Perhaps the wicket had been used for a similar purpose when Warde himself was a boy at the Manor. It was vital to John's plan that Warde should see him without recognizing him, and give chase. The chase would end in capture at some point as reasonably far from the Manor as possible. Warde might ask for explanations, but none would be forthcoming till the morrow. Meantime, the coast would be clear for Desmond. John, in fine, was playing the part of a pilot-engine.
But where was Warde?