“‘Central Criminal Court, Grandcourt. The assizes will open this evening in the forum at 6.30 sharp. You are hereby summoned on urgent business. Hereof fail not at your peril.’”
“What do that mean?” again inquired Dig. “What right has Wake to threaten us?”
“Don’t you see, Wake, whose father is a pettifogging lawyer, is going to get up a make-believe law court—I heard him talk about it last term—instead of the regular debating evening. The best of it is, we kids shall all be in it, instead of getting stuck on the back bench to clap, as we generally are.”
“He’s no business to tell us to fail not at our peril,” growled Dig. “What will they do?”
“Try somebody for murder, perhaps, or—why, of course!” exclaimed Arthur, “they’ll have somebody tried for that Bickers row!”
“By the way,” said Dig, returning to the great question on his mind, “you never told me if you really knew who did it.”
Arthur’s face clouded again.
“How should I know?” said he shortly. “What’s the use of talking about it?”
There was something mysterious in Herapath’s manner which disturbed his friend. It was bad enough not to be backed up in his own schemes, but to feel that his chum knew something that he did not, was very hard on Sir Digby.
Now he recalled it, Arthur had all along been somewhat reserved about the business. He had made sport of other fellows’ theories, but he had never disclosed his own. Yet it was evident he had his own ideas on the subject. Was it come to this, that after all these terms of confidence and alliance, a petty secret was to come between them and cloud the hitherto peaceful horizon of their fellowship?