Arthur winced once more. He would have preferred if Railsford had given him one hundred lines for daring to suspect him, and had done with it.
“I say,” said he, “you needn’t tell them at home, Marky. I know I was a cad, especially when you were such a brick that night at the abbey, and I’ll never do it again. They’d be awfully down on me if they knew.”
“My dear boy, you are not a cad, and I shall certainly not tell anyone of your little mistake. But leave me now; I have a lot of things to think about. Good-night.”
Arthur returned to his room in dejected spirits.
He had made a fool of himself, he knew, and done his best friend an injustice; consequently he felt, for once in a way, thoroughly ashamed of himself. What irritated him most of all was the loss of the articles he had so carefully treasured up as evidence against somebody.
“Felgate’s collared them, that’s certain,” said he, “and why?”
“He has a big row on with Marky,” replied Dig; “I expect he means to bowl him out about this.”
“That’s it,” said Arthur, “that’s what he’s up to. I say, Dig, we ought to be able to pay him out, you and I; and save old Marky.”
“I’m game,” said Dig; “but how?”
“Get the things back, anyhow. Let’s see, they’ve got something on at the Forum to-night, haven’t they?”