Clif scowled in puzzlement. His wrath was melting fast, and the fact made him feel rather ridiculous. He unclenched his hands, thrust them into his pockets and summoned a note of contempt. “I hope he kicks you out,” he declared. But the words lacked conviction. The fact was that the strange chap, in spite of his behavior and in spite of the detestation in which Clif held him, sort of worked on your sympathies! Now he nodded agreement.
“Yes, I guess maybe that would be best,” he said. He arose slowly, with a deep sigh, and stared morosely over the wide stretch of lawn that, beyond a single formal bed of scarlet geraniums and coleuses, led from the school building to the village road. Clif watched him frowningly. A straight bodied, finely built chap, and, to an unprejudiced observer, extremely good-looking, with hair that held a glint of bronze where the sun reached it, deeply tanned skin, dark gray eyes, a short nose and a rather assertive chin. If, thought Clif, the fellow wasn’t such a rotter—
Then the rotter turned and looked moodily at him. “You might wish me luck, you know.”
Clif laughed ironically.
“Because,” the other went on as he moved toward the wide doorway, “if he turns me down I’ll be out of this dump in an hour. If he doesn’t I’ll see you in the morning. By the way, where do I find you?”
“I’m in 17 West Hall, and my name’s Bingham.”
“My name’s Kemble. Glad to know you. Well, see you again.”
He straightened his shoulders in the manner of a condemned man starting for the gallows and disappeared indoors. Clif looked after him, frowning in puzzlement for an instant, and then followed. Beyond the reception room a wide flight of slate stairs curved to the second floor, and up it Clif made his way, his footsteps arousing tiny echoes in the silent building. In the second floor corridor one or two doors stood open, but so far he had the Hall almost to himself. His door was the fourth on the right. On the oaken panel was an oval disk of white enamel bearing the number 17. Beneath it were two small brass slots, in one of which a somewhat yellowed visiting card indicated that Mr. Walter Harrison Treat dwelt within. Mr. Treat was not within at present, however, for when Clif swung the door shut behind him he was the sole occupant of the room.
His father had thought well of the apartment, but Clif was not so pleased with it. It was large enough and nicely furnished, but, although it contained two windows, it was on the inner side of the building, close to the angle formed by the junction of West and Middle Halls, and the view was confined to the courtyard. At Wyndham everything save the gymnasium was under one roof, an advantage emphasized by the school advertisements. The original structure, now known as Middle Hall, formed the nucleus of the present plant. Within a year or two of each other, East Hall and West Hall had been erected to connect with either end of the old building. The three halls formed as many sides of a quadrangle, with the opening toward the front and the space between affording a seldom used approach to Middle Hall flanked by turf and shrubbery. This space was Clif’s outlook from Number 17. The grass was smooth and well kept, the shrubs neatly trimmed, the blue gravel newly raked, but Clif wondered if one wouldn’t get a bit tired of that restricted view after a while. Of course, it was possible to look up and see blue sky above the slate roof of the opposite Hall; and three pigeons, sunning themselves and conversing throatily across the way, offered momentary interest; but Clif would have preferred a wider outlook. Besides, since the windows faced the east, the room promised to be rather dark after midday. In fact, away from the windows it was already shadowed.