“Not with you in the school, you murderer!” exclaimed Farfield, advancing on the Cad, and striking him on the mouth.
Farfield had counted the cost, and was prepared for the furious onslaught which he felt certain would follow.
But Jeffreys seemed scarcely even to be aware of the blow. He kept his eyes on Scarfe, to whom he had addressed his last question, and said—
“You won’t believe me. I didn’t mean it.”
“Don’t tell lies,” said Scarfe, “you did—coward!”
Jeffreys turned on his heel with what sounded like a sigh. The fury of his companions, which had more than once been on the point of breaking loose in the course of the short conference, vented itself in a howl as the door closed behind him. And yet, some said to themselves, would a murderer have stood and faced them all as he had done?
The long night passed anxiously and sleeplessly for most of the inhabitants of Bolsover. The event of the day had awed them into something like a common feeling. They forgot their own petty quarrels and grievances for the time, and thought of nothing but poor Forrester.
The doctor and Mr Frampton never quitted his room all night. Boys who, refusing to go to bed, sat anxiously, with their study doors open, eager to catch the first sound proceeding from that solemn chamber, waited in vain, and dropped asleep where they sat as the night gave place to dawn. Even the masters hovered restlessly about with careworn faces, and full of misgivings as hour passed hour without tidings.
At length—it was about ten o’clock, and the school bell was just beginning to toll for morning chapel—the door opened, and Mr Frampton stepped quickly out of the sick-room.
“Stop the bell at once!” he said.