ards she testified that he looked
singularly cool and self-possessed.

"I wish to see Mr. Warde," he said.

"He's dining at the Head Master's."

"Will he be in soon?"

"I--er--don't know. Perhaps not. I wouldn't wait for him, Verney, if
I were you."

"Thank you," said John. "Good night."

He went back to his room. In Mrs. Warde's eyes had read--what?
Excitement? Apprehension? Suddenly, conviction came to him that this
dinner at the Head Master's was a blind. Why, during that very
afternoon, Warde had mentioned casually to Scaife that he was dining
out. He had deliberately informed the Demon that the Coast was dear.
And at this moment, probably, Warde lay concealed near the chestnut
tree, waiting, watching, about to pounce upon the--wrong man!

The temptation to cry "_Cave_!" tore at his vitals. Till this moment
the tyranny of honour had never oppressed John. Having resolved to
tell Warde that he meant to break his word, it may seem inexplicable
that he shouldn't go a step further and break his word without warning
the house-master. Upon such nice points of conscience hang issues of
world-wide importance. To John, at any rate, the difference between
the two paths out of a tangled wood was greater than it might appear to
some of us. Warde had trusted him implicitly: could he bring himself
to violate Warde's confidence without giving the man notice?

However, what he might have done under pressure must remain a matter of
surmise. At this moment a third path became visible. And down it John
rushed, without consideration as to where it might lead. The one thing
plain at this crisis was the certainty that he had discovered a plan of
action which would save two things he valued supremely--his friendship
for Caesar and his word of honour.

Here we are at liberty to speculate what John would have done had he
considered dispassionately the consequences of an action to be
accomplished at once or not at all. But he had not time to consider
anything except the fact that action would put to rout some very
tormenting thoughts.

He crumpled his bed, disarranged his room, and put on a cap and a thin
overcoat, as all lights in the boys' side of the Mandi were
extinguished. Then he stole out of his room, and crept to the window
at the end of the passage. A moment later, he had squeezed through it,
and was standing upon the sill outside, gazing fearfully at the void
beneath, and the distance between the sill