Wraysford said nothing, but fidgeted in his chair. A long silence followed, each busy with his own thoughts and both yearning for any sign of hope. “I don’t see what good it could have done him if he did take the paper. He’d have no time to cram it up yesterday. He was out with you, wasn’t he, all the afternoon?”
“No,” said Wraysford, not looking up, “he had a headache and stayed in.”
Pembury gave a low whistle of dismay.
“I say, Wray,” said he, presently, “it really does look bad, don’t you think so yourself?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Wraysford, with a groan; “I’m quite bewildered.”
“It’s no use pretending not to see what’s as plain as daylight,” said Pembury, as he turned and hobbled away.
The Fifth meanwhile had been holding a sort of court-martial on the affair.
Simon was made to repeat his story once more, and stuck to it too, in spite of all the browbeating he got.
“What makes you so sure of the exact time?” asked one of his inquisitors.
“Oh, because, you know, I wanted to get off a letter by the post, and thought I was in time till I saw the clock opposite the Doctor’s study said five minutes past.”