Now if Oliver had really been innocent, the natural thing would have been—wouldn’t it?—for him to be quite cut up at this exhibition of feeling, and fall on his brother’s neck and protest once more that he never did or would or could do such a thing as that he was suspected of. But instead of this, the hardened villain turned quite cross when he saw his brother at the point of tears, and exclaimed, hurriedly, “Don’t make a young fool of yourself, Stee, whatever you do. It won’t do a bit of good.”
“But, Noll, old man,” pleaded the boy, “why ever don’t you—”
“Because I don’t choose, and it would be no use if I did,” retorted the other.
“But the fellows all suspect you!”
“I can’t help that, if they do. Come now, Stee, we’ve had enough of this. It’ll all come right some day, you see, and meanwhile what do you say to a turn in the gymnasium?”
“Well, but,” persisted Stephen, not half satisfied, “you surely aren’t going to give mother’s message to Wraysford? I don’t want him home at Christmas.”
“No one asked you if you did, you young duffer. But I don’t think, all the same, I shall give it just yet.”
They were walking down the big passage arm-in-arm in the direction of the gymnasium, and as Oliver spoke these last words the subject of their conversation appeared advancing towards them.
Who could have believed that those three friends who only a month or two ago were quoted all over Saint Dominic’s as inseparables could ever meet and pass one another as these three met and passed one another now?
Wraysford coloured as he caught sight of his old ally, and looked another way. Oliver, more composed, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, and appeared to be completely unconscious of the presence of any one but Stephen, who hung on to his arm, snorting and fuming and inwardly raging like a young tiger held in by the chain from his prey.