Chapter 21 The League Revealed

    "What do you think of that?" said Clowes.

　　Trevor said nothing. He could not quite grasp the situation. It wasnot only that he had got the idea so firmly into his head that itwas Rand-Brown who had sent the letters and appropriated the bat.

　　Even supposing he had not suspected Rand-Brown, he would never havedreamed of suspecting Ruthven. They had been friends. Not very closefriends--Trevor's keenness for games and Ruthven's dislike of themprevented that--but a good deal more than acquaintances. He was soconstituted that he could not grasp the frame of mind required forsuch an action as Ruthven's. It was something absolutely abnormal.

　　Clowes was equally surprised, but for a different reason. It was not somuch the enormity of Ruthven's proceedings that took him aback. Hebelieved him, with that cheerful intolerance which a certain type ofmind affects, capable of anything. What surprised him was the fact thatRuthven had had the ingenuity and even the daring to conduct a campaignof this description. Cribbing in examinations he would have thought thelimit of his crimes. Something backboneless and underhand of that kindwould not have surprised him in the least. He would have said that itwas just about what he had expected all along. But that Ruthven shouldblossom out suddenly as quite an ingenious and capable criminal in thisway, was a complete surprise.

　　"Well, perhaps _you_'ll make a remark?" he said, turning toRuthven.

　　Ruthven, looking very much like a passenger on a Channel steamer whohas just discovered that the motion of the vessel is affecting himunpleasantly, had fallen into a chair when Clowes handed him off. Hesat there with a look on his pasty face which was not good to see, assilent as Trevor. It seemed that whatever conversation there was goingto be would have to take the form of a soliloquy from Clowes.

　　Clowes took a seat on the corner of the table.

　　"It seems to me, Ruthven," he said, "that you'd better say_something_. At present there's a lot that wants explaining. Asthis bat has been found lying in your drawer, I suppose we may take itthat you're the impolite letter-writer?"Ruthven found his voice at last.

　　"I'm not," he cried; "I never wrote a line.""Now we're getting at it," said Clowes. "I thought you couldn't havehad it in you to carry this business through on your own. Apparentlyyou've only been the sleeping partner in this show, though I suppose itwas you who ragged Trevor's study? Not much sleeping about that. Youtook over the acting branch of the concern for that day only, I expect.

　　Was it you who ragged the study?"Ruthven stared into the fire, but said nothing.

　　"Must be polite, you know, Ruthven, and answer when you're spoken to.

　　Was it you who ragged Trevor's study?""Yes," said Ruthven.

　　"Thought so.""Why, of course, I met you just outside," said Trevor, speaking for thefirst time. "You were the chap who told me what had happened."Ruthven said nothing.

　　"The ragging of the study seems to have been all the active work hedid," remarked Clowes.

　　"No," said Trevor, "he posted the letters, whether he wrote them ornot. Milton was telling me--you remember? I told you. No, I didn't.

　　Milton found out that the letters were posted by a small, light-hairedfellow.""That's him," said Clowes, as regardless of grammar as the monks ofRheims, pointing with the poker at Ruthven's immaculate locks. "Well,you ragged the study and posted the letters. That was all your share.

　　Am I right in thinking Rand-Brown was the other partner?"Silence from Ruthven.

　　"Am I?" persisted Clowes.

　　"You may think what you like. I don't care.""Now we're getting rude again," complained Clowes. "_Was_ Rand-Brownin this?""Yes," said Ruthven.

　　"Thought so. And who else?""No one.""Try again.""I tell you there was no one else. Can't you believe a word a chapsays?""A word here and there, perhaps," said Clowes, as one making aconcession, "but not many, and this isn't one of them. Have anothershot."Ruthven relapsed into silence.

　　"All right, then," said Clowes, "we'll accept that statement. There'sjust a chance that it may be true. And that's about all, I think. Thisisn't my affair at all, really. It's yours, Trevor. I'm only aspectator and camp-follower. It's your business. You'll find me in mystudy." And putting the poker carefully in its place, Clowes left theroom. He went into his study, and tried to begin some work. But thebeauties of the second book of Thucydides failed to appeal to him. Hismind was elsewhere. He felt too excited with what had just happened totranslate Greek. He pulled up a chair in front of the fire, and gavehimself up to speculating how Trevor was getting on in the neighbouringstudy. He was glad he had left him to finish the business. If he hadbeen in Trevor's place, there was nothing he would so greatly havedisliked as to have some one--however familiar a friend--interfering inhis wars and settling them for him. Left to himself, Clowes wouldprobably have ended the interview by kicking Ruthven into the nearestapproach to pulp compatible with the laws relating to manslaughter. Hehad an uneasy suspicion that Trevor would let him down far too easily.

　　The handle turned. Trevor came in, and pulled up another chair insilence. His face wore a look of disgust. But there were no signs ofcombat upon him. The toe of his boot was not worn and battered, asClowes would have liked to have seen it. Evidently he had not chosen toadopt active and physical measures for the improvement of Ruthven'smoral well-being.

　　"Well?" said Clowes.

　　"My word, what a hound!" breathed Trevor, half to himself.

　　"My sentiments to a hair," said Clowes, approvingly. "But what have youdone?""I didn't do anything.""I was afraid you wouldn't. Did he give any explanation? What made himgo in for the thing at all? What earthly motive could he have for notwanting Barry to get his colours, bar the fact that Rand-Brown didn'twant him to? And why should he do what Rand-Brown told him? I never evenknew they were pals, before today.""He told me a good deal," said Trevor. "It's one of the beastliestthings I ever heard. They neither of them come particularly well out ofthe business, but Rand-Brown comes worse out of it even than Ruthven.

　　My word, that man wants killing.""That'll keep," said Clowes, nodding. "What's the yarn?""Do you remember about a year ago a chap named Patterson gettingsacked?"Clowes nodded again. He remembered the case well. Patterson had hadgambling transactions with a Wrykyn tradesman, had been found out, andhad gone.

　　"You remember what a surprise it was to everybody. It wasn't one ofthose cases where half the school suspects what's going on. Those casesalways come out sooner or later. But Patterson nobody knew about.""Yes. Well?""Nobody," said Trevor, "except Ruthven, that is. Ruthven got to knowsomehow. I believe he was a bit of a pal of Patterson's at the time.

　　Anyhow,--they had a row, and Ruthven went to Dexter--Patterson was inDexter's--and sneaked. Dexter promised to keep his name out of thebusiness, and went straight to the Old Man, and Patterson got turfedout on the spot. Then somehow or other Rand-Brown got to know aboutit--I believe Ruthven must have told him by accident some time or other.

　　After that he simply had to do everything Rand-Brown wanted him to.

　　Otherwise he said that he would tell the chaps about the Pattersonaffair. That put Ruthven in a dead funk.""Of course," said Clowes; "I should imagine friend Ruthven would havegot rather a bad time of it. But what made them think of starting theLeague? It was a jolly smart idea. Rand-Brown's, of course?""Yes. I suppose he'd heard about it, and thought something might bemade out of it if it were revived.""And were Ruthven and he the only two in it?""Ruthven swears they were, and I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't tellingthe truth, for once in his life. You see, everything the League's doneso far could have been done by him and Rand-Brown, without anybodyelse's help. The only other studies that were ragged were Mill's andMilton's--both in Seymour's.

　　"Yes," said Clowes.

　　There was a pause. Clowes put another shovelful of coal on the fire.

　　"What are you going to do to Ruthven?""Nothing.""Nothing? Hang it, he doesn't deserve to get off like that. He isn't asbad as Rand-Brown--quite--but he's pretty nearly as finished a littlebeast as you could find.""Finished is just the word," said Trevor. "He's going at the end of theweek.""Going? What! sacked?""Yes. The Old Man's been finding out things about him, apparently, andthis smoking row has just added the finishing-touch to his discoveries.

　　He's particularly keen against smoking just now for some reason.""But was Ruthven in it?""Yes. Didn't I tell you? He was one of the fellows Dexter caught in thevault. There were two in this house, you remember?""Who was the other?""That man Dashwood. Has the study next to Paget's old one. He's going,too.""Scarcely knew him. What sort of a chap was he?""Outsider. No good to the house in any way. He won't be missed.""And what are you going to do about Rand-Brown?""Fight him, of course. What else could I do?""But you're no match for him.""We'll see.""But you _aren't_," persisted Clowes. "He can give you a stoneeasily, and he's not a bad boxer either. Moriarty didn't beat him sovery cheaply in the middle-weight this year. You wouldn't have achance."Trevor flared up.

　　"Heavens, man," he cried, "do you think I don't know all that myself?

　　But what on earth would you have me do? Besides, he may be a goodboxer, but he's got no pluck at all. I might outstay him.""Hope so," said Clowes.

　　But his tone was not hopeful.