Considering the various handicaps under which he laboured notablya cold in the head, a fear of the Little Nugget, and a reverencefor the aristocracy--Mr Abney's handling of the situation, whenthe runaways returned to school, bordered on the masterly. Any sortof physical punishment being out of the question--especially in thecase of the Nugget, who would certainly have retaliated with a boutof window-breaking--he had to fall back on oratory, and he did thisto such effect that, when he had finished, Augustus wept openly andwas so subdued that he did not ask a single question for nearly threedays.

　　One result of the adventure was that Ogden's bed was moved to asort of cubby-hole adjoining my room. In the house, as originallyplanned, this had evidently been a dressing-room. Under Mr Abney'srule it had come to be used as a general repository for lumber. Myboxes were there, and a portmanteau of Glossop's. It was anexcellent place in which to bestow a boy in quest of whomkidnappers might break in by night. The window was too small toallow a man to pass through, and the only means of entrance was byway of my room. By night, at any rate, the Nugget's safety seemedto be assured.

　　The curiosity of the small boy, fortunately, is not lasting. Hisactive mind lives mainly in the present. It was not many days,therefore, before the excitement caused by Buck's raid and theNugget's disappearance began to subside. Within a week bothepisodes had been shelved as subjects of conversation, and theschool had settled down to its normal humdrum life.

　　To me, however, there had come a period of mental unrest moreacute than I had ever experienced. My life, for the past fiveyears, had run in so smooth a stream that, now that I found myselftossed about in the rapids, I was bewildered. It was a peculiaraggravation of the difficulty of my position that in my world, thelittle world of Sanstead House, there should be but one woman, andshe the very one whom, if I wished to recover my peace of mind, itwas necessary for me to avoid.

　　My feelings towards Cynthia at this time defied my powers ofanalysis. There were moments when I clung to the memory of her,when she seemed the only thing solid and safe in a world of chaos,and moments, again, when she was a burden crushing me. There weredays when I would give up the struggle and let myself drift, anddays when I would fight myself inch by inch. But every day foundmy position more hopeless than the last.

　　At night sometimes, as I lay awake, I would tell myself that ifonly I could see her or even hear from her the struggle would beeasier. It was her total disappearance from my life that made itso hard for me. I had nothing to help me to fight.

　　And then, one morning, as if in answer to my thoughts her lettercame.

　　The letter startled me. It was as if there had been sometelepathic communion between us.

　　It was very short, almost formal: