ed Carfax."

He closed the door behind him and was gone.

CHAPTER XI

FIFTH OF NOVEMBER

1

That attempt to make Craven speak his mind was Olva's last plunge into
the open. He saw now, with a clarity that was like the sudden lifting of
some blind before a lighted window, that he had been beguiled, betrayed.
He had thought that his confession to Bunning would stay the pursuit. He
saw now that it was the Pursuer Himself who had instigated it. With that
confession the grey shadow had drawn nearer, had made one degree more
certain the ultimate capitulation.

For Bunning was surely the last person to be told--with every hour that
became clearer. There were now about four weeks before the end of term.
The Dublin match was to be on the first Tuesday of December, two days
before every one went down, and between the two dates--this 5th of
November and that 2nd of December--the position must be held. . . .

The terror of the irresistible impulse now never left Olva. He had told
Bunning in a moment of uncontrol--what might he not do now at any time?
At one instant to be absolutely silent seemed the only resource, at the
next to rush out and take part in all the life about him. Were he silent
he was tortured by the silence, if he flung himself amongst his fellow
men every hour threatened self-betrayal.

What, moreover, was happening in the house in Rocket Road? Craven was
only waiting for certainty and at any moment some chance might give him
what he needed. What did Mrs. Craven know?

Margaret . . . Margaret . . . Margaret---Olva took the thought of
her in his hand and held it like a sword, against the forces that were
crowding in upon him.

The afternoon of November 5 was thick with fog so that the shops were
lighted early and every room was dim and unreal, and a sulphurous smell
weighted the air. After "Hall" Olva came back to his room and found
Bunning, his white face peering out of the foggy mist like a dull moon
from clouds, waiting for him. All day there had hung about Olva heavy
depression. It had seemed so ugly and sinister a world--the fog had been
crowded with faces and terror, and the dreadful overpowering impression
of unreality that had been increasing with every day now took from
his companions all life and made of them grinning masks. He remembered
Margaret's cry, "It is like walking in a dream," and echoed it. Surely
it _was_ a dream! He would wake one happy morning and find that he had
invited Cra