Of course he could see it all now. If this diary was to be believed—but was it? Might it not be a hoax purposely put in his way to delude him?
Yet he could not believe that this laboriously written record could have been compiled for his sole benefit; and this one entry which he had lit upon by mere chance was only one of hundreds of stupid, absurd entries, most of which meant nothing at all, and which seemed more like the symptoms of a disease than the healthy productions of a sane boy.
In this one case, however, there seemed to be some method in the author’s madness, and he had given a clue so important that Riddell, in pondering over it that evening and calculating its true value, was very nearly being late for the doctor’s tea at seven o’clock.
However, he came to himself just in time to decorate his person, and hurry across the quadrangle before the clock struck.
On his way over he met Parson and Telson, walking arm-in-arm. Although the same spectacle had met his eyes on an average twice every day that term, and was about the commonest “show” in Willoughby, the sight of the faithful pair at this particular time when the revelations of Bosher’s diary were tingling in his ears impressed the captain. Indeed, it impressed him so much that, at the imminent risk of being late for the doctor’s tea, he pulled up to speak to them.
Parson, as became a loyal Parrett, made as though he would pass on, but Telson held him back.
“I say, you two,” said Riddell, “will you come to breakfast with me to-morrow morning after chapel?”
And without so much as waiting for a reply, he bolted off, leaving his two would-be guests a trifle concerned as to his sanity.
The clock was beginning to strike as Riddell knocked at the doctor’s door, and began at length to realise what he was in for.
He did not know whether to be thankful or not that Bloomfield and Fairbairn would be there to share his misery. They would be but two extra witnesses to his sufferings, and their tribulations were hardly likely to relieve his.