"This is most extraordinary behaviour," returned the master. "What reason have you for not telling the truth?"
"Because—because—well, sir, the reason is, that I could not speak without getting others into trouble. Indeed, sir," he earnestly added, "though I did stop out from your house all night, I did no wrong; I was in no mischief, and it was no fault of mine."
Strange perhaps to say, the master believed him: from his long experience of the boy, he could believe nothing but good of Harry Arkell, and if ever words bore the stamp of truth, his did now.
"I am in a hurry at present," said the master, "but don't flatter yourself this matter will rest."
Henry touched his cap again, and the master strode on to the residence of the Reverend Mr. Prattleton, and entered it without ceremony. Mr. Prattleton was seated with his two sons, and with George.
"Send the boys away for a minute, will you?" cried the master to his brother clergyman.
The boys went away, exceedingly glad to be sent. "You can go on with your Greek in the other room," said their father. But to that suggestion they were conveniently deaf, preferring to take an evening gallop through some of the more obscure streets, where they knocked furiously at all the doors, and pulled out a few of the bell-wires.
"An unpleasant affair has happened, Prattleton," began the master. "The register at St. James's has been robbed."
"The register robbed!" echoed Mr. Prattleton. "Not the book taken?"
"Not the book itself. A leaf has been taken out of it."