It was no use going on like this. Riddell was getting unmanned every moment, and Wyndham by these wild appeals was only prolonging the agony.
“Wyndham, old fellow,” said the captain, in tones full of sympathy and pity, “if I had dreamt all this was to happen I would never have come to Willoughby at all. I know what troubles you have had this term, and how bravely you have been trying to turn over a new leaf. I’d give anything to be able to help you out of this, but I tell you plainly I don’t see how to do it. If you like, I’ll go with you to the doctor, and—”
“No, no!” exclaimed Wyndham, wildly, “I can’t do that! I can’t do that!”
“Then,” said Riddell, gravely, “I must go to him by myself.”
Wyndham looked up and tried to speak, and then fairly broke down.
“If the honour of the whole school were not involved—”
Wyndham looked up in a startled way. “The honour of the school? What has it got to do with my going to—”
What strange fatality was there about Riddell’s study-door that it always opened at the most inopportune times?
Just as Wyndham began to speak it opened again, and Bloomfield, of all persons, appeared.
“I want to speak to you, Riddell,” he said.