"I shall pay up the pony," said Desmond.
"No, you won't," said Scaife. "As for the money, I never cared a hang about that. I'm glad—and you ought to know it—that you've won the bet. All the same, Verney isn't entitled to all the glory that you give him."
"He is, he is—and more, too."
Scaife laughed. John felt rather uncomfortable. Always Scaife exhibited his amazing resource at unexpected moments.
"Never mind," Scaife continued, "I won't burst the pretty bubble. And I admit, remember, Verney's cleverness."
He was turning to go, but Desmond clutched his sleeve. When he spoke his fair face was scarlet.
"You sneer at the wrong man and at the wrong time," he said angrily, "and you talk as though I was a fool. Well, I am a fool, perhaps, and I blow bubbles. Prick this one, if you can. I challenge you to do it."
Scaife shrugged his shoulders. "It's so obvious," he said coolly, "that your kind friend ran no risks other than a sprained ankle or a cold."
"What do you mean?"
"He was certain that you would come forward. He forced your hand. There was never the smallest chance of his being sacked, and he knew it."