“Tell me.”
“Meyrick—Lord Meyrick, and Robertson. Perhaps you don’t know him. He’s a Winchester man, a splendid cricketer. It was Robertson I was struggling with when I fell. How could he know I should hurt myself? It wasn’t his fault and he gave up his ‘choice’ for the Oxford Eleven. They put him in at the last moment. But he wouldn’t play. I didn’t know till afterwards. I told him he was a great fool.”
There was a pause. Then Connie said—with difficulty—“Did—did Mr. Falloden write? Has he said anything?”
“Oh yes, he sent a message. After all, when you run over a dog, you send a message, don’t you?” said the lad with sudden bitterness. “And I believe he wrote a letter—after I came here. But I didn’t open it. I gave it to Sorell.”
Then he raised himself on his pillows and looked keenly at Connie.
“You see the others didn’t mean any harm. They were drunk, and it was a row. But Falloden wasn’t drunk—and he did mean—”
“Oh, not to hurt you so?” cried Connie involuntarily.
“No—but to humble and trample on me,” said the youth with vehemence, his pale cheeks flaming. “He knew quite well what he was about. I felt that when they came into my room. He is cruel—he has the temper of the torturer—in cold blood—”
A shudder of rage went through him. His excitable Slav nature brought everything back to him—as ugly and as real as when it happened.
“Oh, no—no!” said Constance, putting her hand over her eyes.