"Yes. On the day Percival came to the sand-pits to meet the champion of the Beetles, he little knew whom he was to meet. I knew as little whom I was to meet. He looked upon me as one who had saved his life. How could he fight me? So he turned away."
"Why didn't he explain?" asked Stanley.
"And give away his secret, or, rather, your father's secret, before that mob of boys? You—you ask that?"
"But after——"
"After? From what he has told me, he made more than one effort to explain to you, but you would never listen to him."
It was true enough. Stanley remembered it all—the effort Paul had made to speak to him immediately after the fight, and later. Everything was now clear. How noble Paul had been! How he had wronged him! He covered his face with his hands. He could not speak. Wyndham respected his silence.
At length he placed his hand upon the bowed shoulder. Stanley did not shrink from it.
"I'm sorry if I've caused you pain; but it was the only way. Mischief is being done. You must prevent it from going any further."
"I will—I will! You can trust me," cried Stanley, fervently. "Paul, Paul, how I've wronged you!"
"I'm glad you see that. You will make it up with him—you will be friends with him once more?"