But Riddell stood his ground boldly, and the spirit of the bully faltered.
“You’ll be sorry for it,” snarled the latter. Riddell said nothing, but waited patiently for him to go. Seeing that nothing more was to be gained, and baffled on all points—even on the point where he made sure of having his enemy, Silk turned on his heel and went, slamming the door viciously behind him.
Riddell had rarely felt such a sense of relief as he experienced on being thus left to himself.
The suddenness of Silk’s disclosure and the strange way in which it had been followed up had disconcerted him. But now he had time to think calmly over the whole affair.
And two things seemed pretty clear. One was that, strange as it seemed, there must be something in Silk’s story. He could hardly have invented it and stuck to it in the way he had for no other purpose than embarrassing the captain; and the pressure he had applied to get Riddell to withdraw the names before the doctor saw them, confirmed this idea.
The other point made clear was that his duty, at whatever cost, even at the cost of young Wyndham himself, was to report the fight and make no terms with the offenders. If the result was what Silk threatened, he could only hope the doctor would deal leniently with the boy.
One other thing was clear too. He must see both Wyndham and Bloomfield in the morning.
With which resolve, and not without a prayer for wisdom better than his own to act in this crisis, he retired to bed.
Early next morning, before almost any sign of life showed itself in Willoughby, the captain was up and dressed.
The magic that so often attends on a night’s sleep had done its work on him, and as he walked across the quadrangle that fresh summer morning his head was clear and his mind made up.