"Of course!" assented Parfitt. "As you say, Newall, it's as clear as day. Nothing could be clearer."
"Nothing could be clearer," echoed Stanley, as his head fell to his breast.
Harry was silent. Like his cousin, there had always been deep down in his heart a real affection and sympathy for Paul. He had always hoped that he would be able to reinstate himself in the good opinion of the school; so it was he had cheered with the rest when Paul returned with the flag. It was all very mysterious, it was true; but Harry had shut his eyes on the mystery. The flag had come back to the school. Paul had brought it. He had made good his word. That was enough. He would be again the Paul he had once known—the Paul Stanley had known and loved.
"What's to be done?" demanded Stanley.
"Well, we can't do anything to-day. Let's wait developments to-morrow. Mr. Weevil's bound to take some sort of action."
"Oh, there you go again!" cried Stanley impatiently. "Putting things on. Yesterday it was the same."
"How do you mean?"
"I wanted to make straight for Percival. 'No,' said you; 'don't be in a hurry. We mustn't show our hands too soon.' And so on, and so on. Oh, I'm sick of it all—sick of everything—sick of waiting!"
Harry looked up at his cousin. There was a note of passionate revolt in his voice, a fierce light in his eyes; both hands were clenched, and he seemed to sway to and fro, as though no longer master of himself.
"For that matter, so am I," said Newall softly. "Perhaps I was wrong, Moncrief, in putting things off. I dare say I was. You gave in to me yesterday, I give in to you to-day; that's only fair. What do you want, old fellow?"