The last strait in which Riddell found himself was worse than any that had gone before. For he could not deny, and to say nothing would be the same as assenting. The secret was out, and what could he do? The only thing seemed to be to appeal to Bloomfield’s generosity, to explain all to him, and to implore him, for a day or two at least, to keep sacred the confidence.
And yet—it was the old question—suppose he were wrong, and suppose after all Wyndham were not the culprit, what grievous wrong would he be doing him by admitting even his suspicion! He composed himself with an effort, and turning, replied, “Excuse me, Bloomfield, I’ve told you I can say nothing at present, and it is really useless to say any more about it.”
Bloomfield departed, perplexed and angry. His anger was partly because he could not help feeling that Riddell was in the right; and his perplexity was to know what to think of it all, and whether his guess about young Wyndham was near the mark or not.
“Well,” inquired Game, who with one or two of the most ardent Parretts was eagerly waiting his return. “Have you got it out of him?”
“No,” said Bloomfield, “he won’t tell me.”
“The cad!” exclaimed Game. “Why ever not?”
“He says he’s not sure, that’s why,” said Bloomfield; “but it’s my private opinion he’s shielding some one or other.”
“Of course he is,” said Ashley. “I shouldn’t wonder if he’s known who it is all along.”
“Anyhow,” said Tipper, “he ought to be made to clear it up, or else pay up for it. I know I’ll cut him dead next time I see him.”
“So shall we,” replied one or two others.