Silence instantly reigned. You might have heard a pin drop as they waited for Paul to speak; but they waited in vain. He neither spoke nor moved. He was not thinking of himself, nor of the boys that stood around him. He had ears and eyes for Stanley, and no other. It was a transformed Stanley—not the Stanley he had once known.
"Lost your tongue?" cried Stanley, breaking the silence. "Come, out with it. We can't wait here all day! How did you manage to get hold of the flag? Who had it, and how did you get it back to Garside? Don't be so awfully modest? You've hidden your light under a bushel too long."
"The flag is back at Garside," answered Paul firmly, ignoring the taunt. "For the rest you had better ask Mr. Weevil. I don't owe any explanation to you or any other fellow in the Form!"
He turned away, but Stanley sprang between him and the door.
"That won't do? You do owe us an explanation, and I mean having it!"
"You?"
There was more of sorrow than anger in Paul's voice, but to the sensitive ears of Stanley, strung to the highest tension, it sounded strangely like contempt.
"I! What were you doing with the Beetle we saw you with near the sand-pits this afternoon?"
"The Beetle you ran away from, you know," added Newall. "The Beetle you left Moncrief to fight for you!"
This wholly unnecessary piece of information sent the scarlet back for a moment into the white face of Stanley. His hands opened spasmodically; then closed in a firmer grip than before.