And before Paul could answer him he was gone.
"A queer little beggar!" thought Paul. "He's got a good heart, though, in spite of the queer outside of him. Poor little chap, how lonely he seems!"
Paul was more anxious than he had been for a long time for school to begin that day. It seemed for the sole purpose of thwarting him that it commenced later instead of earlier. Instead of commencing at the usual hour only one of the masters out of the six entered as the clock struck nine. Ten minutes elapsed, and still no masters. The boys commenced talking in whispers. What had happened? Something was wrong. An accident must have happened. Or could it be that the illness of the Head had taken a turn for the worse?
Paul feared that the absence of the masters must be in some way due to Stanley. Perhaps they had discovered the visit he—Paul—had paid him in the night. Perhaps they were discussing what was to be done with him. These and a hundred other suspicions flashed through his mind as he waited the entrance of the masters.
The hubbub in the school had grown louder. The boys no longer talked in whispers; their tongues were wagging loudly. Mr. Travers, the master in charge, made no effort to restrain them. He was himself talking to one of the Sixth Form boys.
Suddenly, however, he broke off, and pressed the bell.
"Silence!" he cried.
In an instant the hubbub of voices ceased, as the door opened and the masters, headed by Mr. Weevil, entered the room.