"I came to bring Rupert," was George's answer. "He is waiting to be let in; tired and ill."
"I will not let him in," raved Mr. Chattaway. "How dare you, I ask?"
"What is all this?" broke from the amazed voice of Miss Diana Trevlyn. "What does it mean? I don't comprehend it in the least."
George looked up at her window. "Rupert could not get home by the hour specified by Mr. Chattaway—half-past ten. I am asking that he may be admitted now, Miss Trevlyn."
"Of course he can be admitted," said Miss Diana.
"Of course he sha'n't," retorted Mr. Chattaway.
"Who says he couldn't get home in time if he had wanted to come?" called out Cris from a window on the upper story. "Does it take him five or six hours to walk from Blackstone?"
"Is that you, Christopher?" asked George, falling back a little that he might see him better. "I want to speak to you. By what right did you take possession of my horse at Blackstone this afternoon, and ride him home?"
"I chose to do it," said Cris.
"I lent that horse to Rupert, who was unfit to walk. It would have been more generous—though you may not understand the word—had you left it for him. He was not in bed last night; has gone without food to-day—you were more capable of walking home than he."