Caesar confessed
that he had been betting, that he had won, following Scaife's advice,
and then had lost. The loss was greater than the gain, and the
difference, some five and twenty pounds, had been sent to Scaife's
bookmaker by Scaife. As before, Scaife ridiculed the possibility of such
a debt causing his pal any uneasiness, but it chafed Desmond consumedly.

Upon the Saturday of the semi-final house match, in which the Manor had
won a great victory by an innings and twenty-three runs, John went to
Desmond's room after prayers. He noticed at once that his friend was
unusually excited. John, however, attributed this to Caesar's big score.
Success always inflamed Caesar, just as it seemed to tranquillize John.
John began to talk, but he noticed that Caesar was abstracted, answered
in monosyllables, and twice looked at his watch.

"Have you an appointment, Caesar?"

"No. What were you saying, Jonathan?"

"You look rather queer to-night."

"Do I?" He laughed nervously.

"You're not bothering over that debt?"

This time Caesar laughed naturally.

"Rather not. Why, that debt----" He stopped.

"Is it paid?" said John.

"It will be. Don't worry!"

But John looked worried. He perceived that Caesar's finely-formed hands
were trembling, whenever they were still.

"Harry," said he--he never called Desmond Harry except when they were at
home--"Harry, what's wrong?"

"Why, nothing--nothing, that is, which amounts to anything."

"Harry, you are the worst liar in England. Something is wrong. Can't you
tell me? You must. I'm hanged if I leave you till you do tell me."

He looked steadily at Desmond. In his clear grey eyes were tiny, dancing
flecks of golden brown, which Desmond had seen once or twice
before,--which came whenever John was profoundly moved. The dancing
flecks transformed themselves in Desmond's fancy into sprites, the airy
creatures of John's will, imposing John's wishes and commands.

"Scaife said I might tell you, if I liked."

"Scaife?" John drew in his breath. "Then Scaife wanted you to tell me; I
am sure of that." He felt his way by the dim light of smouldering
suspicion. If Scaife wanted John to know anything, it was because such
knowledge must prove pain, not pleasure. John did not say this. Then,
very abruptly, Desmond continued. "You swear that what I'm about to tell
you will be regarded as sacred?"

"Yes."

"It is a matter which concerns Scaife and me, not you. You won't
interfere?"