"Thanks," said Fenn.

　　He stood twirling the cap round in his hand as Spencer closed thedoor. Then he threw it on to the table. He did not feel particularlydisturbed at the thought of the interview that was to come. He hadbeen expecting the cap to turn up, like the corpse of Eugene Aram'svictim, at some inconvenient moment. It was a pity that it had comejust as things looked as if they might be made more or less tolerablein Kay's. He had been looking forward with a grim pleasure to thesensation that would be caused in the house when it became known thathe and Kennedy had formed a combine for its moral and physicalbenefit. But that was all over. He would be sacked, beyond a doubt. Inthe history of Eckleton, as far as he knew it, there had never been acase of a fellow breaking out at night and not being expelled when hewas caught. It was one of the cardinal sins in the school code. Therehad been the case of Peter Brown, which his brother had mentioned inhis letter. And in his own time he had seen three men vanish fromEckleton for the same offence. He did not flatter himself that hisrecord at the school was so good as to make it likely that theauthorities would stretch a point in his favour.

　　"So long, Kennedy," he said. "You'll be here when I get back, Isuppose?""What does he want you for, do you think?" asked Kennedy, stretchinghimself, with a yawn. It never struck him that Fenn could be in anyserious trouble. Fenn was a prefect; and when the headmaster sent fora prefect, it was generally to tell him that he had got a splitinfinitive in his English Essay that week.

　　"Glad I'm not you," he added, as a gust of wind rattled the sash, andthe rain dashed against the pane. "Beastly evening to have to go out.""It isn't the rain I mind," said Fenn; "it's what's going to happenwhen I get indoors again," and refused to explain further. There wouldbe plenty of time to tell Kennedy the whole story when he returned. Itwas better not to keep the headmaster waiting.

　　The first thing he noticed on reaching the School House was thestrange demeanour of the butler. Whenever Fenn had had occasion tocall on the headmaster hitherto, Watson had admitted him with the airof a high priest leading a devotee to a shrine of which he was thesole managing director. This evening he seemed restless, excited.

　　"Good evening, Mr Fenn," he said. "This way, sir."Those were his actual words. Fenn had not known for certain until nowthat he _could_ talk. On previous occasions their conversationshad been limited to an "Is the headmaster in?" from Fenn, and astately inclination of the head from Watson. The man was getting apositive babbler.

　　With an eager, springy step, distantly reminiscent of a shopwalkerheading a procession of customers, with a touch of the style of thewinner in a walking-race to Brighton, the once slow-moving butler ledthe way to the headmaster's study.