The consciousness of this nerved him with unlooked-for courage, and he walked from the Parliament that afternoon a very different being from the boy who had entered it. He had entered it cowed, irresolute, wretched; he left it indeed still wretched, but with his spirit roused and his mind made up. His duty lay clear before him, and whatever it cost he must do it.
Whether Wibberly was himself the writer of the mysterious letter, or whether some one had prompted him to ask the question, or whether his asking it just at this time was a mere coincidence, he did not trouble to decide.
He felt rather grateful to him than otherwise for having asked it, just as one is occasionally grateful to the thunder-clap for clearing the air.
The first thing without doubt was to find Wyndham, and come to a clear understanding as to whether or not he was the culprit; and the captain lost no time in attempting to put this resolve into practice.
It would not do, he knew, immediately after the scene in the Parliament, when everybody would be on the tip-toe of curiosity, to be seen holding a secret interview with any particular boy. He therefore decided wisely to wait till the usual time when Wyndham was in the habit of coming to his study to do his lessons. Meanwhile, to make sure of his coming, he sent him a message by Cusack to tell him to be sure and turn up.
Cusack, little suspecting the importance of this simple message, delivered it glibly, and being of course brimful of the excitement of the hour, he remained a little to regale Wyndham with a history of the afternoon’s events.
“Oh, I say,” said he, “you weren’t at Parliament this afternoon. There was no end of a shine on.”
“Was there?” asked Wyndham.
“Rather. What do you think, those young Parrett’s cads came down in a body and kicked up the biggest row you ever saw—said they were a club, and made no end of beasts of themselves, and got kicked out at last, and serve them right too.”
“They’re always fooling about at something,” said Wyndham.