And accordingly the absurd experiment was made. Afterwards, John asked
himself a thousand times why he had not foreseen the inevitable result.
But the explanation is almost too simple to be recorded: he wished to
convince a friend that he would attempt anything to prove his
friendship.

That night they went together to Scaife's room. The second-best room
in the Manor, situated upon the first floor, it overlooked the back of
the garden, where there was a tangled thicket of laurustinus and
rhododendron. Scaife had spent much money in making this room as
comfortable as possible. It had the appearance of a man's room, and
presented all the characteristics of the man who lived in it.
Everything connected with Scaife's triumphal march through the School
was preserved. On the walls were his caps, fezes, and cups. You could
hardly see the paper for the framed photographs of Scaife and his
fellow "bloods." Scaife as cricketer, Scaife as football-player,
Scaife as racquet-player and athlete, stared boldly and triumphantly at
you. He had a fine desk covered with massive silver ornaments. Upon
this, as upon everything else in the room, was the hall-mark of the
successful man of business. The papers, the pens and pencils, the
filed bills and letters, the books of reference, spoke eloquently of a
mind that used order as a means to a definite end. All his books were
well bound. His boots were on trees. His racquets were in their
press. Had you opened his chest of drawers, you would have found his
clothes in perfect condition. Obviously, to an observant eye, the
owner of this room gave his mind to details, because he realized that
on details hang great and successful enterprises.

Scaife stared at John, but welcomed him civilly enough. Cricket, of
course, explained this unexpected visit. As Desmond blurted out what
was in his mind, Scaife frowned; then he laughed unpleasantly.

"And so I told Jonathan," concluded Desmond.

"So you told Jonathan," repeated Scaife. "Are you in the habit of
telling Jonathan,"--the derisive inflection as he pronounced the name
warned John at least that he had much better have stayed away--"things
which concern others and which don't concern him?"

"If you're going to take it like that----"

"Keep cool, Caesar. I'll admit that you mean well. I should like to
hear what Verney has to say."

At that John spoke--haltingly. Fluent speech upon any subject very
dear to him had always