“Yes.” Finch was whiter than ever.
“Well, was it true—no, I mean, was Kit right—did you go there to rough-house his room that night?”
“Yes,” breathed Finch.
“Had you been rough-housing his room and desk before, as he thinks you had?”
“Yes.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Tony. “And you lied to me! You let me quarrel with Kit, just because I thought you were innocent and that he had been hard on you and unfair! You let me lose one of my very best friends, just because—by Jove, I don’t understand you. It’s too rotten bad.”
“For God’s sake, Deering,” whimpered Finch, “don’t throw me over!” and then sat, biting the tips of his fingers.
Tony, wavering between anger, disgust and pity, could scarcely trust himself to speak.
At last he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me the truth that night when I asked you? Kit and I had already quarreled, but if I had known then what you had done to him, we could——Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”