"There's another question which Moncrief's modesty prevents him from asking," he said, with a sneer. "We've been given to understand that the Beetle you shook hands with is the same Beetle who knocked Moncrief about in the sand-pit. Is that true, too?"
Paul was silent, as though he still stood to the resolution he had made not to answer Newall.
"Is it—is it?" demanded Stanley, turning swiftly round again, his tone almost as fierce as Newall's had been.
"Yes; it is true." Then he added in a lower voice: "There are things I can't explain. Will you meet me quietly, by yourself, just for a few minutes, Stanley?"
"There's nothing I'm ashamed of. I've no secrets," came the proud, cold answer. "If you've anything to explain, explain it now—in the presence of my friend Newall and the rest!"
"My friend Newall!" The words froze up all the warmer feelings in Paul's breast. It was as though Stanley had taken a knife from his pocket, and with one cruel stroke severed the last bond of friendship between them, and had then bound with firmer hand the bonds that bound him to Newall.
"Very well. If that is your last word, I've spoken my last word too."
And Paul turned on his heel, leaving them to draw what conclusions they liked from his answer.
Newall and his companions set to work removing the feathers which had descended on him in such a shower, and while they were actively engaged in it Waterman came leisurely along, late as usual, and drawled out:
"Hallo, Newall! What's wrong? Been moulting?"