A MONSTROUS ACCUSATION

It was a terrible moment for Clive. In the midst of his own vexation and chagrin at the failure he had made, and at the knowledge that he had just missed laying hands on the criminal who had been setting fire to the school, to be pounced upon of a sudden, gripped with suffocating firmness and shaken like a dog, was disconcerting, to say the least of it. It was positively maddening.

"Let go, you fool! Clear off, and let me go on with the business," he cried in tones of anger. "Do you hear? Let go."

Clive was no saint. He had as many faults as the average fellow, and perhaps more than some. But they were honest faults, faults seen in the light of open day. Not the low, mean ones affected by some fellows behind the scenes, to their own shame and the abhorrence of all right-thinking people. Clive had never been one of those fellows who sadly upset the discipline and more of a school. He was a rock to lean on where questions of principle and honour were concerned. The Head knew it. Old B. knew it better still perhaps. The masters and the school thought quite well of our hero. But he had a temper, and showed it now. He struggled and fought like a madman. But still those iron fingers gripped his neck.

"At last!" he heard in the deep, cross tones of Mr. Axim. "At last the wretch who has troubled us so long is run to earth. Stir an inch, sir, and I'll deal sternly with you. There'll be no trifling, I can assure you. Though you are a Ranleigh prefect, and not yet a man, you can expect the roughest handling."

That was Mr. Axim all over. He was, perhaps, the most unpopular of all the masters. In fact, we may state that Ranleigh had seldom been so unlucky. Mr. Axim seemed indeed to have been born with a natural antipathy for boys, and it was ill luck that he should have come to Ranleigh, or, for the matter of that, to any school. To him boys were unnatural animals. He was ever suspicious of them. Their overflowing fun and humour he could not understand, while boyish forgetfulness and want of care were, in his eyes, unpardonable offences. Was it fate, too, which had made him Clive's one particular bête noire, almost a persecutor? For friendship between them had never existed. The merry, light-hearted Clive, so serious when it came to mechanics, so studious when he was interested, was with this Mr. Axim a sulky dunce, unable to grip even simple rudiments. But then driving never agreed with our hero. A little sympathy, a little human friendship, and he was your best supporter, ready to "swat," as the boys termed it, ready to work his fingers almost to the bone so that he might give satisfaction. With Mr. Axim he had, in his earlier days at Ranleigh, been for ever in trouble, and since then the two had avoided one another as far as possible, each unmistakably disliking the other.

"At last, and the Head's pet prefect!" said Mr. Axim, laughing satirically, and with an air of triumph in his voice. "Let us see what he has to say to this capture. Pet prefect indeed! Pet hypocrite, I think. And to think that I warned him of you! To think that the one who did so nobly in putting out our first fire should have set it going. Ha! ha! I suspected the game. You should have thought of me, Darrell, when you went into this scoundrelly business."

Clive was too astounded to make any reply, and if he had wished, the grip compressing his neck behind made speaking almost impossible. His wits were whirling. He felt inclined to shout, or to break out into hysterical laughter. It was bad enough to have missed the man he was after, when he and his friends had taken so much trouble. And now, to be accused of the deed himself, to be told that he had been caught red-handed, was half maddening, half ludicrous. Had it been anyone else but Mr. Axim, Clive would have explained. But this master's obvious triumph, his satire and biting sarcasm kept our hero's lips silent.

"So," said Mr. Axim, as if gathering his ideas and thinking the matter out, "so, returning from a pleasant evening in the village we accidently discover Darrell as the much-wanted incendiary. Good! We now proceed to disillusionise the Head. We will ring this bell and awake him."

He tugged at the cord promptly, and somewhere far away in the depths of the house Clive heard an answering clang, repeated some five or six times. Mr. Axim went to the door and closed it, standing afterwards with his back to it.

"I'll not soil my fingers any longer," he said. "You can stand over there in the opposite corner. No. Leave the candle. A desperate young ruffian such as you are might easily complete the job I managed fortunately to disturb. Now, a clean breast of the whole business will be the only course for you to follow."

Clive scowled at him, and then closely inspected his surroundings. As he had suspected, there was a pile of papers in one corner, from which came the strong odour of paraffin. Everything, in fact, was ready for the conflagration. It merely wanted the match, and that at least he had been instrumental in preventing. Suddenly there was a tap at the door. The Head of Ranleigh entered. Slowly his eyes passed from the figure of Mr. Axim to that of Clive. He sniffed heavily, turning his head in all directions. Then, as if he had more than half gripped the situation, his pale and impassive face became suddenly paler in the candle light, while he wore an unusually stern expression. Crossing to the wide table on which his papers were neatly arranged and ticketed, he drew his writing chair nearer and sat down, resting his forehead on his hands. And thus he remained for a few moments, as if anxious to put his thoughts from him. It was with a fierce "Well?" that he finally addressed Mr. Axim.

"This is the end of the trouble," said the latter. "You have had fires at the school. The matter has been a mystery. There is the culprit. Clive Darrell."

"And you?" asked the Head severely, turning upon our hero. "You admit this fact? You agree that Mr. Axim discovered you in the act of setting fire to these premises? Answer at once. Are you responsible for the whole of this wicked business?"

"Decidedly not. There has been a mistake, sir," said Clive, hardly knowing where to commence his story.

"A mistake! Of course," laughed Mr. Axim hoarsely. "There always is an error in these affairs, no matter whether the culprit be discovered candle in hand, in the midst of heaped-up papers saturated with paraffin!"

"You were found like that, Darrell?" asked the Head, sadly enough.

Clive nodded. He glared across at Mr. Axim defiantly. "I admit the fact," he said curtly. "But I am not the culprit. Mr. Axim has been too clever, for he has merely come upon the scene after I had discovered what was happening. I followed someone here. I wasn't sure what was happening, though I had my suspicions. I came down the passage and was about to enter the room when this fellow suddenly put his electric torch on me. There was darkness a second later. He knocked me over, and sent my torch flying. I chased him down the corridor and then lost sight of him. Thinking that he might have returned here, I came back again. That was the moment when Mr. Axim proved so clever."

The latter gasped. Clive's effrontery made him positively giddy.

"A pack of lies," he cried. "If there had been a struggle you would have heard it. Of course he lost sight of this fellow in the corridor, simply because he never existed."

"Silence, please," commanded the Head, lifting a shaking finger. "Clive Darrell, you state that you discovered an incendiary at work. You had a torch. You chased this man. You no doubt saw him. Then give the name. Was it one of my Ranleighans?"

"Yes," came the prompt answer. "I feel sure it was one, though I'm sorry to have to admit it. But who, that's another question."

Mr. Axim sniggered. Clive could willingly have kicked him. The Head's pale face took on a sterner appearance.

"You saw and followed, and admit that this miscreant was a Ranleighan," he said icily. "Then you can also give the name of the individual."

"No. I refuse. In my own mind my suspicions are so strong that I feel certain. But I never saw his face. I'll condemn no one on such evidence. I regret I am unable to give you the name of the fellow."

Mr. Axim laughed again, causing the Head to frown. Clive crossed his arms over his chest and confronted his questioners. And then the master who had come upon him stepped up to his side, took the candle and slowly inspected him.

"Rubber shoes, for silence of course," he reported. "Got a sweater on, for warmth, ditto a dressing-gown. Smells strongly of paraffin, and has a box of matches in his pocket."

His elevated eyebrows were more than expressive. He looked at his senior as much as to say, "The evidence is conclusive. This boy is a liar."

But Ranleigh's Head was not the one to condemn without a searching investigation. He had thrown himself back in his chair, and was staring now at the candle. He was terribly grieved, if the truth be known, most terribly disappointed. For Clive was an especial favourite. He could have sworn that the young fellow was honest and upright. Besides, this was the act of a fanatic. Clive wasn't that. He was a decidedly level-headed fellow.

"You refuse that name?" he asked after a while.

"Yes, sir."

"You have no other explanation to offer?"

"Most certainly!"

"Ah!" smiled Mr. Axim, and then, sotto voce, "More lies, I suppose. Hear him!"

"Then let me hear it."

"These fires have naturally upset Ranleigh fellows. We felt it a duty to discover the culprit. We decided to watch the premises during the night. Masters and I were on duty at eleven to-night. You will find him down in the far corridor."

Mr. Axim's face fell. The Head's took on a happier expression.

"Fetch him here, please," he said, turning to the master. "We will wait for your return. Be quick, please."

He aimlessly turned over the papers on his table while Mr. Axim was absent. But very soon the latter was back, bringing a very startled young fellow with him.

"You were watching with Darrell, then?" asked the Head.

"Certainly. We decided to see into this jolly business and catch the cad—er—the fellow that was doing it. Er—Clive and I were for duty to-night."

"Together?"

"No, sir. Separate. We were to meet every few minutes."

"You met then?"

"Often. At last Clive crept along and told me there was someone about. He asked me to watch at the far end of the corridor."

The Head nodded. Mr. Axim gave vent to a malicious chuckle.

"Well out of the way there, I think?" he asked. "Did you see anything of this chase which we are told followed?"

"What chase?" asked Masters, looking across at his friend. "I don't understand. I've been waiting there ever since in case Clive's man bolted. What's happened?"

There was an impressive silence for one whole minute.

"Only I'm accused of preparing a fire here," said Clive. "Mr. Axim caught me."

"Red-handed," cried the latter. "Matches in pocket and candle in hand. Now he has the impudence to declare that he himself disturbed a fellow here. He chased him down the corridor, when the culprit disappeared. But you neither saw nor heard them! That's significant. More than that, Darrell saw this wretch, recognised him, he believes, but will give us no name. Queer, a little, don't you think, Masters? But let us go a little deeper into the question. That first fire commenced close to One South. Darrell was the one to discover and quench it. It was marvellous how he had managed to think out all the details of the business."

"Wait! Parfit woke him first. He gave the warning," cried Masters, his face flushed with anger and distress at the accusation aimed at his friend. "When you begin to dig deep, Mr. Axim, we'll have all the details, please. Just remember what I've mentioned."

"I do," came the cutting and sharp answer. "Parfit announced smoke. The smell had awakened him. Agreed. But there's no fire without smoke. Darrell had ample time to do his work and get back to the dormitory. My argument begins to tell, I think."

He looked searchingly at the Head, while Masters stared at Clive as if he were stricken speechless.

"We go further now," said Mr. Axim, a note of exultation in his voice. "The post of School Captain falls vacant next term. Darrell is a candidate."

"Yes," nodded Masters.

"That fire and his management of the boys made him first favourite. It gave his popularity a tremendous fillip. But who was chiefly instrumental in discovering and controlling the fires which followed? Clive Darrell!" cried Mr. Axim, pointing a condemning finger at our hero. "Who would have had all the kudos here to-night, once this fire had started? The wretch stands there. Clive Darrell, being conveniently on watch, and having thoughtfully got rid of his companion, prepares for a flare, makes ready to set it going, with the one idea of waiting for the flames to become sufficiently serious. Then he makes the discovery. Wakes the school, oh so gently, and descends to-morrow morning even a greater hero than he was before. In fact, he becomes certain King of Ranleigh. There, sir, you have the case clearly. There is clear motive for such conduct. Clive Darrell is the one you are after."

Very carefully had the Head followed this argument. He didn't like Mr. Axim overmuch, but he knew him to be a shrewd fellow. For the life of him he could see no fault in this argument. It was a terrible indictment. Everything seemed to argue against the truth of Clive's story. Everything? No. Let him declare the name of this fellow he had chased. Then let them confront him. That would clear his name absolutely.

"Clive Darrell," said the Head sternly, though kindly, "you have followed Mr. Axim? The evidence looks black against you. As to the motive, I find it harder to believe that you would play to the gallery for any post than I do to conceive of any reason for your firing these buildings. One thing alone can clear you. Give me the name of this person you followed. Let us bring him face to face with you."

There was dead silence. Mr. Axim actually smiled. Masters looked terribly distressed, while the Head seemed thoroughly miserable.

"You refuse?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then go to your dormitory. You will be expelled in the morning."

It was a disastrous ending to the ambitions of our hero.

THE OLD FIRM HANGS TOGETHER

There were white faces amongst the members of the Old Firm on the morning following Clive's arrest by Mr. Axim, and the sentence which the Head had passed on him. The school itself was agog with the news.

"Darrell's bunked! Heard it? What's he done?" was passing on every side.

The prefects discussed the matter for the most part sorrowfully and a little shamefacedly. It was a terrible blow to them to find that amongst their number there was such a criminal.

"It's more than a bunking business," said Roper. "It's a case for the criminal courts. Darrell'll get years of imprisonment. Arson is a most serious offence. I wouldn't have thought it of him."

"I don't believe it. There's some mistake, I'm positive," declared Jenkins, one of Clive's particular friends. "Hear what the Old Firm have to say."

But that the Sixth were not likely to have an opportunity of hearing, for Bert and Hugh and the others were collected together at that moment in the Gym, whither they had departed so as to have peace, and so as to be able to discuss matters in private. Hugh, as if habit were too strong for him, sat across the horse. Bert, his face unusually stern, leaned against the same apparatus. Susanne stood close at hand, his broad shoulders stooping to a marked degree on this fatal morning. As for Trendall, there was grief written unmistakably on his decidedly pleasant features. Then Masters joined them. They were awaiting his coming, and gave vent to sighs of relief as he came through the Gym doorway and walked toward them. But it was a weary, despondent Masters. There was not the usual elasticity about his step. This fellow, apt to see fun in almost anything, and very seldom down-hearted, might have been at this instant preparing to attend his own funeral.

Susanne beckoned him forward.

"Now, tell us all," he said. "Everything, so that we may judge."

"Then I'll start at eleven last night, when we met in the corridor and commenced our patrolling."

Very rapidly he narrated the events of the night, unimportant in his own case till the latter part. Still, he missed nothing, giving them the closest details. Each one of the Firm stretched a trifle closer when he came to that portion of the narrative when Mr. Axim called him, and he discovered Clive face to face with the Head. He even told them what words had passed, how Mr. Axim had summed up the matter, how Clive had refused to give the name of the boy he more than strongly suspected.

"There's the whole case," he said at last. "I grant you it's black. Things somehow seemed to have worked round to incriminate Clive. It's an awful business. I hate that fellow Axim. He's a howling bounder."

They agreed with him at once.

"And we all trust Clive," said Susanne impressively. "He's the victim of circumstances."

"Anyone could sum up the case blackly against him," cried Bert. "Listen to this. Because a fire breaks out in the neighbourhood of South Dormitory Clive must be the culprit. That's Axim's argument. Why not Susanne, then? Because Clive is a candidate for Captain of the School. But so am I. So's Susanne, so's Masters and plenty of others. But listen again to Axim's reasoning. Clive must be the culprit not only because he's a candidate for Captain, but because he engineered the brigade which stopped the fire, and because he managed to think of all sorts of issues, sent to have the gas cut off, sent for the fire brigade, etc. Pshaw!"

He stamped his foot. Looked at quietly one could see the fallacy of such reasoning. Why because Clive had done his best should he necessarily have had an eye to his chances of being elected as Captain of Ranleigh?

"The suggestion's preposterous. I wonder the Head hasn't seen it!" said Trendall. "Because a chap does well, is he therefore necessarily to have an ulterior motive? The argument's rotten. If persisted in it would soon kill initiative in an institution. A chap would be afraid of being accused of all sorts of things. Of course, what clinches a bad argument is Clive's admission that he saw this chap, believes he knows the fellow in spite of not seeing his face, and yet won't give the name. He refused."

"Bluntly," said Susanne, almost with a sob. "We interviewed him early this morning, Masters and Bert and I. Refused curtly. We asked him why."

"And what's the answer?" demanded Hugh. "Mind you, Clive's a queer beggar. He loathes Axim. Axim tried to drive him, and that's quite enough to make Clive shut up. Then he's got queer ideas of honour and all that. What did he say?"

"Refused to discuss the matter. Simply said he wasn't sufficiently sure of his man to launch such an accusation against him. Then shut up and got quite angry."

"School's summoned in Hall for eleven," said Bert. "I propose we go again and see Clive. He must give way; we'll compel him."

The idea was one which appealed strongly to them, and since if all went numbers might defeat their object, Hugh and Susanne were selected for the interview, and at once went off to the Bursar's office where Clive was incarcerated pending his departure from Ranleigh for the railway station. Ten minutes later they were back, their faces almost haggard.

"He's gone—hooked it!" cried Susanne, looking round at his friends with anxious eyes.

"Gone! Bolted?" asked Bert, bewildered. "Why?"

"Wouldn't stand to be bullied any longer. Wouldn't have the Head and others constantly coming to demand the name of the fellow he'd seen. Said that since they openly disbelieved his story they'd better sack him—in fact, that he'd sack himself. He left a note to tell 'em what he was doing."

Clive had indeed launched a thunderbolt at all at Ranleigh. The anxious and harassed Head found his troubles vastly added to by this unforeseen event. For days past his had been an unenviable existence, and had the Old Firm but known it, he had taken steps to have the outside of the school closely patrolled every night, while various of the servants had been watched. In fact, the Head had scorned the idea that this incendiary was one of his own community. Advised by the village sergeant of police, he had come to the conclusion that it must be some madman living in the neighbourhood, or someone outside with a grudge against the school, someone probably with an intimate knowledge of the buildings. Strong suspicion, in fact, fell upon one of the men employed about the place a few weeks before, and summarily dismissed for misconduct.

And now he knew it to be a Ranleigh boy. One had been taken actually red-handed. But that boy was Clive Darrell. Even now, with the evidence so strong against him, the Head could not believe it. And yet, after full discussion, he could see no room for error. It seemed certain that not only had Clive done this thing and thrown dust in the eyes of the police and the school officials, but he had also hoodwinked his own special companions. That system of patrolling was but a ruse to disarm suspicion. It was strange, more than strange, that Clive should always be at hand on these occasions when fire broke out, while, if he were the guilty person, as Mr. Axim proved so easily and conclusively, then the motive was plain if despicable.

It may be imagined, too, that this train of argument cut the ground from beneath the feet of Susanne and his friends. What could the Old Firm bring to controvert such evidence? Merely the stubborn refusal to believe Clive guilty. Merely to scoff at the idea that he had made fools of them.

And now he was gone. If his tale were true, one event and one only could clear his name and bring him back to Ranleigh. That boy whom Clive refused to name could come forward and declare the true facts of the case, and so clear his comrade.

"Axim don't believe there is another fellow in it," said Bert bitterly, when the news of Clive's going was brought to them. "The Head would like to, but the evidence is too strong for him. But I'm still positive that Clive's straight and honest. He'd never dirty his fingers with such a business."

"And I'm going to find him and this other beggar," declared Hugh.

"Bravo! We'll all help," came from Susanne. "Now, look here, you fellows, I've a proposition. We don't want to worry the Head or break regulations, do we?"

"Certainly not," from Trendall.

"Regulations, no. I'd break that fellow Axim's head," growled Masters.

"At the same time, we believe our biggest and best friend to have been wrongfully accused of this crime of arson."

"Yes," said Bert emphatically. "He is a victim of circumstances."

"And since his future and his fair name concerns us more than school regulations, I'm going to break 'em. I'm going off at once to find Clive. Hugh'll come with me, also Masters and Trendall, if they like."

Each one mentioned eagerly accepted. "It's the least we can do," said Masters. "How'll you set about it?"

"One moment," cried Susanne, lifting a hand.

"What about me, then?" asked Bert.

"You will have just as important work. You will read our manifesto. We'll draw it up now, put the full facts in it, and declare our intention of searching for Clive. At eleven, when the school meets, and the Head comes in to announce Clive's expulsion, you'll stand out and demand that this decision be delayed for a while, till we've investigated the matter. He won't refuse. He's far too decent a fellow. Meanwhile, we shall move off. I'll hire that new car they've got at the 'Green Man' down in the village, that is, as soon as we've made sure he hasn't taken the train. Then we'll run round in all directions asking for information. It's nine now. Let's get the manifesto written and signed, and then slip off. Bert will see what can be done here to pick up some crumbs of evidence."

Without discussion, without further thought indeed, the Old Firm adopted this proposition. They may not have been right. It would have been better, perhaps, had they started on their own ground by seeking further evidence in the school, instead of delegating that task to Bert. But then, the Old Firm was notorious for its impetuosity and also for warm-heartedness. They were true friends ever, and here they meant to prove it. If Clive were innocent, then he should be found and brought back to the school. If he were guilty, why, not one of the Old Firm would believe it till he himself had admitted it.

And so that manifesto was drawn up by Bert, when all signed it. Then he watched them depart from the school, and went off himself to sift the matter to the bottom. It may be imagined what a sensation his presence caused some two hours later, when, the Head having come before the assembled school and mounted the dais to make his painful announcement, Bert walked from amongst his fellows and coolly—for he had braced himself for this trying ordeal—stepped up beside him.

"Boys of Ranleigh," began the Head, not having noticed Bert, "I have a most painful announcement to make. You are aware that fires have occurred in the school of late, fires caused by an incendiary. The culprit has now been found. I regret to say that it is Clive Darrell."

There was dead silence in the Hall. The Head stood with his shoulders thrown back, his eyes firmly closed as was his wont, looking positively miserable. It was, in fact, a miserable business. Here was a promising boy's future ruined. The only little solace, and it was likely enough only a temporary one, was the fact that Clive had bolted. There was a warrant out already for his arrest, and to see him in the police court, to witness his trial and condemnation would be the very last straw. Ranleigh's unhappy Head would have given thousands could he have undone the whole matter, thousands to save Clive Darrell, for he liked the young fellow, and thousands also to save the honour of the School. He opened his eyes then, heard a step beside him, and saw Bert for the first time. Mr. Axim had seen him a minute earlier, for all the masters were present, as was the custom on such occasions, and had officiously attempted to arrest him. But Bert shook his hand off peremptorily, and now advanced to the Head's side.

"I have to ask pardon, sir," he began. "Clive Darrell is an old friend of mine, and I come here to support him in his absence. I have here a paper recapitulating the evidence against him, which I and Clive's best friends have drawn up. We feel sure that you are too fair not to allow us to put it before the School. May I read it?"

There was surprise on the Head's face. Mr. Axim was openly scoffing. But a partisan of Clive's down at the end of the school boldly set up a cheer. Feeling was indeed running high. Ranleigh still could not believe Clive Darrell guilty, and now by their cheers they openly demanded to hear the evidence in full. It was, indeed, a novel situation. The Head grappled with it magnificently. He stood aside, and then held up his hand.

"We pride ourselves on fair play at Ranleigh," he said. "Let Seymour Primus and his friends prove Clive Darrell innocent, and I shall be the first to thank them. Read the paper."

Bert did, slowly and impressively. Perhaps Susanne could not have chosen a better man to put those facts before Ranleigh. The boys seemed to grip the situation instantly. There were cheers as he reached the end of his manifesto, and then dead silence. Bert had still something to say.

"Sir," he said, turning to the Head, "there is a Ranleighan here who is the really guilty party. Who set fire to the school? I beg that you ask him to come forward, and I ask also that you defer Clive Darrell's expulsion till we have had time to sift certain evidence. We have a clue. Fair play, sir, is all that we ask of you."

You could have heard the smallest pin drop on the tiled paving of the Hall. Even the smaller boys failed on this momentous occasion to shuffle their feet, an irritating habit they often acquire, while the seniors of Ranleigh School moved not a muscle. There were none of those sharp, barking coughs so noticeable in class-rooms, or in Chapel, which distract the attention of the reader and make his voice almost inaudible. There was a deep and impressive silence. As for the faces of those collected in Hall, they wore a hundred different expressions. The Head's fine, impassive features were heavily lined. He seemed to have actually aged. Mr. Branson, that genial giant so deservedly popular, showed utter misery on his somewhat heavy face. For Old B. had a tender spot in his heart for Clive Darrell, just as he had for many another boy. He had seen him arrive at the school, a mere mischievous chicken. He had watched him grow up, had coached him in his work and in cricket, where Clive did not shine as Bert did. Often had a smile or a word from Old B. encouraged our hero. And here was the end of it all—disgrace, dismissal; perhaps imprisonment.

"A better fellow never came to Ranleigh," he was muttering. "I don't believe this tale. There's a fault somewhere. Clive's a stickler for honour. Why should he give the name of a boy whom he believes he saw, but whose back was always towards him? Then, too, the only light he possessed was an electric torch, and that went out when his finger slipped off the trigger. I grant that many would have given the name. It's just the sort of occasion when Clive would refuse, partly because it's a point of honour with him to protect the name of all Ranleighans, mostly because there is just a doubt in his mind as to whether he can have been mistaken, and he will not therefore fling an accusation of such a serious nature at anyone on such evidence."

Old B. went scarlet in the face. His eyes flashed. He lifted a hand in protest, and stepped forward. "I——" he began, but the Head waved him back peremptorily.

"Wait," he asked a second later. Then his eyes closed. He threw himself into his characteristic attitude, while a deep frown furrowed his brow. From his position on the dais Bert slowly watched the expressions on the faces of those assembled, watched and waited. There was positive fear and alarm in the case of many of the youngsters. Middle School fellows were obviously stirred, though the presence of so many masters, and of the Head in particular, quelled any outburst. But the seniors were not so vastly impressed. There was resolution on some of the faces, indignation on others, and nowhere could he detect a sign of triumph at Clive's downfall. Nowhere. Jenkins stood with clenched fists, biting his lips and deep in thought. Roper appeared to be on the point of bursting into speech. His cheeks were puffed out and reddened, while his breast was absolutely swelling at the thought of the injustice which he considered had been done. Even Rawlings, the oldest boy present, looked sorry. There was none of the old truculence, the open scorn of his rival, for Clive had now become in every way his rival. More than once in the last year had Rawlings aspired to take the post of Captain of Ranleigh, but, as we have said, his unpopularity was too pronounced. And now that an election was imminent, it was certain that Clive, were he at the school, would have gained the coveted honour. That was Rawlings' fault. He should long ago have cultivated the friendship of his fellows. Now he had lost it for good, and without doubt should have left the school long ago. Why he remained on was never quite understood, though it was rumoured that some family trouble had caused him to stay. Be that as it might, he was still a Ranleighan, still unpopular, while of late, perhaps because his own bosom friends had left, he had become silent and taciturn, given to long fits of brooding, and sometimes to outbursts of passion.

No, there was merely sorrow on Rawlings' features, sorrow and a curiously dazed expression. And elsewhere only on the face of one was there any expression hostile to our hero. Mr. Axim scowled. He felt that he himself now stood as prisoner in the dock. For he it was who had caught Clive, he it was who had scoffed at his declaration of innocence, had summed up the evidence, had produced a motive for the acts, and had thus impressed the Head. And here was open rejection of his decision, of his arguments and of Clive's sentence. The position was, in fact, unique in Ranleigh's annals, unique perhaps in the annals of almost every school in existence.

"Monstrous!" he was muttering. "The evidence is clear. These people will be accusing me of the crime next. As if I were swayed by animus! As if it were not absolutely clear that Darrell is the guilty party.

"I—I protest," he cried, and then was silenced just as had been the case with Mr. Branson. The Head actually scowled at his assistant master.

"Allow me, if you please," he said, with acrid emphasis. And then he faced the School. Slowly he allowed his gaze to pass down the lines of boys assembled at their tables. He seemed to look closely into every face, seemed almost to ask the question on every occasion. Then he threw his head back and closed his eyes. But they were open a second later when he addressed the School in tones more solemn than any had ever known him to employ before.

"Ranleighans," he said, "I beg of you to listen to what I have to say. One of your old comrades has been declared to be guilty of the most dastardly conduct. I need not say more on that point, for the particulars are thoroughly known. Last night the evidence against him seemed to my mind to be conclusive. There was no fault that I could discover, and though Darrell himself denied the acts he still declined to give the name of one he suggested was the author of those fires. Now Seymour Primus demands a respite. I give it freely, willingly. If there be a doubt in this case, if delay may produce some evidence to clear Clive Darrell, then, in Heaven's name, let us delay. But let us also search our own consciences. That one whom Clive Darrell suggests is guilty, whose name he refused to give, is a Ranleigh boy. I beg of that boy to come boldly forward for his conscience' sake, for the sake of Clive Darrell."

The silence was positively trying. Bert felt almost as if he would explode if something did not soon happen to lessen the tension. Boys stood at their places absolutely pale and over-strung, unmanned almost by this ordeal. But none spoke. Not a boy came forward to proclaim his guilt and Clive's innocence. There was not so much as a sound for one full minute. And then there came a startling crash from the far end of the Hall. The clatter of feet was heard, the double doors were burst open, and there entered a small procession.

Susanne led the way, with Masters close behind him. Then came Hugh arm in arm with Trendall. The village sergeant of police followed closely, looking wonderfully important and just a little nonplussed at finding himself for a few brief moments the observed of all observers. But interest passed almost at once from him and those who led the procession. A solitary figure marching behind became the target for all observers.

"Clive Darrell!" shouted Bert. "Hooray for Clive Darrell!"

KING OF RANLEIGH

Such a scene had never before been witnessed at Ranleigh. Boys positively became frantic. They cheered and cheered as if they would keep on for ever. As for Bert Seymour, he waved his arms overhead and danced in his excitement, surely an unusual state of affairs with one so noted for sedateness.

And through the noise and the lanes of Ranleighans processed Susanne and his followers. There was a curious air of suppressed excitement and determination about them all. They turned neither to left nor to right, and acknowledged none of the frantic greetings thrown at them. Clive himself marched to the dais hands in pockets, not even deigning to glance at Mr. Axim. The latter's face was indeed a study.

"What's this?" he had asked himself at the commencement of the commotion which had ushered in this strange procession. "Feofé? Ah! One of Darrell's special chums, and, of course, the others close in tow. Members of the Old Firm. Can't help admiring the way they stick to a friend, but it's wasted labour."

The distraction was, in any case, at the very commencement welcome to him. We must be absolutely fair in our dealings with this master, and declare that indignation at the doubt cast on his own shrewdness and at Bert's open criticism of his method of summing up the evidence against Clive Darrell was beginning to give way to something approaching doubt of himself. Had he been absolutely impartial? Had he flown to conclusions, and taken too little heed of Clive's persistent denials and dogged refusal to discuss matters with him?

"Ought to have taken the fellow's nature into account," Mr. Axim was telling himself, for he wasn't at heart an unkindly master, nor even unfair. He was hasty, no doubt, and apt to allow prejudice to control his thoughts and actions. But when all was said and done, Mr. Axim was a Ranleighan, and at Ranleigh they go in for a fine stamp of master. And to the credit of this particular one, let it be stated that he was already discounting the wisdom of his late efforts.

"Supposing I'm wrong, and Clive's innocent? Supposing I've been hasty?" he asked himself. "Pshaw! We never got on well together. Didn't understand one another, I suppose. But that shouldn't make me unfair in my dealings with him. I—I——"

"You've acted like a hasty fool!" Old B. told him bluntly, for Mr. Axim in his agitation was speaking in a loud whisper. "You've been hard on the boy. He's innocent. I'll—hang it, man! I'll back him yet to be King of Ranleigh."

"But—but——"

"There isn't one. Did ever you see a guilty boy return to face his school after committing a crime of this nature? Never! Does that police sergeant look as if he had a possible prisoner behind him? Humbug, Axim! Susanne's face is sufficient to inform you that he has a tale of his own to tell us."

And Susanne had. The tall, broad-shouldered Frenchman looked positively brimming over with happiness, though there was an air of seriousness about him which showed that he also had some trouble. The same might be said of Trendall. But Masters was ever notorious for the openness of his feelings and opinions. He was absolutely truculent at this instant when the procession had arrived at the dais. He transfixed Mr. Axim with a glance which made that unfortunate and ill-advised gentleman wish that he had never had any dealings with this matter. Then all eyes were turned on the Head.

"With your permission, sir," said Susanne, halting at the edge of the dais and addressing the master with becoming respect, "with your permission we will mount the dais. We have information to give you. But first it would be as well to tell us what has been passing here in our absence."

The Head waved him up with a quick gesture. The lines were still drawn deep across his forehead, but there was, nevertheless, something approaching a look of relief. "You've arrived in the nick of time," he said. "Let me explain what has happened. I have made an announcement as to Clive Darrell. Seymour Primus, applauded by the School without exception, has traversed the evidence against him and has demanded delay in this unfortunate matter. To that I have agreed. Then, but a few seconds before your arrival, I begged that if any boy were present here who knew himself guilty he should for his conscience' sake and for Clive Darrell's honour at once come forward. Not a boy has stirred. That is the position."

Susanne mounted the dais slowly and deliberately. Those who knew him would have sworn that he was reluctant to speak, and yet he had information to give which would clear Clive's character entirely. He glanced down those expectant lines thoughtfully.

"Er—you fellows," he said, "I've—that is, we went in search of Clive. We were dead certain he was innocent."

Someone started a cheer just to encourage Susanne, for he was but a poor speaker.

"He was supposed to have bolted from the school with the idea of hiding himself. He hadn't. He went direct to the police station."

There was silence. Boys looked at one another. Some of the seniors wagged their heads.

"Bravo, Clive!" cried Mr. Branson, unable longer to contain himself, and then subsided, for the Head had fixed an indignant gaze on him. The police sergeant at once stepped forward. "Fact, gentlemen," he said. "At eight fifty-two he turns up. Of course I had heard of the night's happening. 'Arrest me, sergeant,' he says. 'I've been expelled for setting fire to Ranleigh.' Gentlemen, I didn't believe him."

Ranleigh howled its appreciation of the magnanimous conduct of this officer, Mr. Axim positively squirmed, while the Head looked more than uncomfortable. However, the sergeant had not yet finished.

"I arrested Mr. Darrell," he said. "On talking the matter over with him I suggested investigation. Mr. Darrell stoutly denied the crime for which he had handed himself over to my keeping."

"Ah! Investigation," gasped Mr. Axim. "How? On what lines? Surely we looked into everything?"

The sergeant withered him with a look of scorn. He produced from beneath his cloak a paper parcel and slowly unwrapped the paper.

"That was worth looking into," he said. "It's the first clue that would occur to a baby. That's a kettle, sir, an ordinary kettle. See it?"

He held it up so that all could see, while he glanced sideways at the unhappy master. Nor was the worthy sergeant disrespectful. There was merely mild indignation in his manner. But then he happened to have a lad of his own of Clive's age, and could thoroughly sympathise with that young fellow. His experience also of the law told him that Mr. Axim's deductions had been hasty and entirely misleading, for he had rushed to conclusions without searching for obvious clues and following those thoroughly. At arm's length overhead he now held a common kettle.

"That's a kettle, sir," he said again, "and that's paraffin."

Slowly he tipped it till a clear fluid trickled from the spout, and falling on the wooden boards of the dais began to spread into a dark, oily patch.

"And paraffin's what this incendiary was pouring along the passage," continued the sergeant. "That kettle was in the Headmaster's study. Were you in the habit, sir, of keeping an article like this in that part?"

It must be frankly admitted that the Head looked thoroughly startled.

"A kettle! Certainly not! Such articles are kept in the proper department. But I follow your reasoning, sergeant, we ought to have investigated this matter."

"And so you would, sir, if you hadn't been led off the path in the wrong direction. The detection of crime ain't only a matter of reasoning. It's a question of facts often enough, and this here kettle's a fact. Now, it don't belong to your people. I've asked the maids and the boy. They don't own to it. Then I searched elsewhere. It was about that time that I ran against Mr. Feofé and his friends. They'd been down to the station making enquiries."

The Head looked intensely surprised. Such an act was a direct breach of school rules and discipline. It amounted almost to a breaking out of the school, and was a crime he would, as a rule, punish severely. But, as a matter of fact, he had not even missed these boys from the collection of Ranleighans. He had no suspicion that they were not present, and the fact can be understood considering the nature of the business which had brought him to meet the assembled school. Nor was this the moment in which to discuss their breach of Ranleigh rules. He motioned to the sergeant to continue.

"They'd learned he was along at my cottage, fixed up in the station, and insisted I should fetch him so as to follow the clue I've put before you. Well, gentlemen, there wasn't a doubt as to the owner. We know him. He knows that we know him. He's here present. He's the guilty party."

No one stirred. If the Head expected that now one of the boys would stand forward he was much mistaken. Not one attempted to move. More than that, though he searched the lines of faces, there was not a boy present who looked conscious or guilty. Was the sergeant mistaken? Was it he who had gone astray from the path, and got upon a wrong line of reasoning and evidence? Mr. Axim started. He wanted to prove Clive innocent just as much as anyone else. He was honest enough not to care even if his own deduction proved childish. But, if clues were to be followed, they must be followed with intelligence.

"One moment, sergeant," he said. "This kettle."

"Yes, sir."

"You know the owner?"

"Without a shadow of doubt, sir."

"But do you know that it was the owner who made use of it last evening? Can you prove that fact? Can you show that Clive Darrell did not himself borrow it for this unfortunate business?"

Every eye turned upon the officer. He cleared his throat with a husky cough and returned the frank and anxious stare of Ranleigh with one of confidence.

"I can," he answered, with decision. "The dressing-gown belonging to the owner of that kettle has the tails of the skirt wet with paraffin."

"But—but——" began Mr. Axim.

"But you can say the same for the dressing-gown belonging to Mr. Darrell. It's saturated. You see, he was bowled over in the passage where the stuff had been laid; at least, sir, that's his story."

"Yes, his. He told me that at once."

"But you didn't believe him. I did," said the sergeant sharply, whereat there was a stir amongst the boys. They were on the point of bursting out. That sergeant had become wonderfully popular.

"One of the best!" Masters was observing to himself, while he scowled at Mr. Axim. Not that he meant much by that. Masters had changed his old ideas by now. The teaching staff at Ranleigh weren't such bad fellows, and decidedly not tyrants. But then the days of Masters' impots were long since finished. "One of the best!" he repeated, looking at the sergeant. "I've got a whole quid in my pocket. The Governor actually stumped up to that extent. Blessed if I don't tip the sergeant a sovereign."

"So we've got no further at the moment. Now, sir," went on the officer, addressing the Headmaster, "I'd been making enquiries round the village, and as a result I've learned that there was someone up here buying paraffin. You see, after that first fire, school stores were safely locked away, so that anyone who wanted the stuff had to look elsewhere for it. That paraffin was carried away by a gent who's the same as the one owning the kettle."

There was a deep hum in the Hall. And then a hush which was almost awe-inspiring.

"But that wasn't quite all I wanted. I looked for more. I looked where anyone else might have looked who'd followed the clue of that kettle. I searched the locker and boxes of that individual. I found there a diary, in which each fire is recorded, while the words make it clear that the writer was the man we're after. Now, sir, is there anyone here who doubts longer that Mr. Darrell can be innocent?"

Not one. Their faces showed it. But not a boy spoke, nor even a master. The moment was far too serious for that, for a tragedy lay still before them. Clive was cleared, even to the satisfaction of Mr. Axim. But there was still a guilty party. He was one of the Ranleigh boys, he was there, actually amongst them, and added to the enormity of his crime was the fact that he had failed to come forward. All eyes were on the sergeant. He was looking thoughtfully down the Hall, and seemed to glance at no one in particular. Then the boys turned their attention to the Headmaster, to Susanne, even to Masters and Trendall. Someone stirred. It was Clive. He stepped swiftly across to the sergeant, and then to the side of the Headmaster, whispering to both of them. The School was electrified a moment later when it received a sharp order.

"That will do," said the Headmaster. "Boys will at once go to their class-rooms. This matter is happily ended, and we rejoice that Clive Darrell is still amongst us, an honoured member of Ranleigh."

There was amazement on all faces. Obedient to the order the School at once filed out of the Hall, while questions shot from one boy to another. Susanne went off arm in arm with Masters. Trendall followed our hero, while the latter actually stepped up to Rawlings and took his arm.

"Come on, old chap," he said kindly. "Let's be going. The Head has dismissed the School."

The fellow was dazed. Anyone who had taken the trouble to watch him almost from the commencement of this business would have noticed that Rawlings stood as one in a dream. He seemed unable to follow the discussion taking place on the dais. His eyes were staring, his mouth half open, while his gaze was fixed on Clive Darrell, and now he was babbling and grinning in extraordinary fashion. They led him gently from the Hall to the sick-room, where the doctor was soon in attendance, and that afternoon the School had another sensation. Rawlings had lost his senses. He had become insane, and was no longer responsible for his actions. More than that, it was he who had set fire so often to the school premises, and with the cunning of one who is insane had managed so long to elude his comrades. And now his curious behaviour of late came to be understood. Fellows wondered why they had not noticed his strange ways, his taciturnity and silence. They were, in fact, the early symptoms of the misfortune which had attacked him. Clive, however, was destined to learn more of this extraordinary matter. It appeared, indeed, that for some while Rawlings had been troubled with home matters. Somehow he had discovered that his father was none too honest, and, in fact, had committed a forgery. That act had enabled him to become possessed of the estate which had once been Clive Darrell's father's. And the antipathy which Rawlings had from the first taken to our hero had persuaded him to put aside this most important discovery. But he was not all bad. The fear of a downfall, of loss of dignity, and of poverty had encouraged him to make the utmost of the benefits which his father's fraud had provided at the expense of Clive's people. And then his better nature and his conscience swayed him in an opposite direction. What was he to do? Expose his own father? Bring ruin on him and disgrace, with a long sentence of imprisonment? The responsibility of such a position can be well imagined. The youth was harassed. The matter preyed on his mind, and this breakdown was the result.

"It was rough on Rawlings," said Clive, when he talked the matter over with his old friends. "I'm sorry for him, awfully. And it's really lucky that the father died. Of course, we've come back to our own again. I'm glad for my mother's sake. But I'm sorry for Rawlings."

"And about that fire. You knew it was he?" asked Bert.

"Yes. I felt certain."

"And you wouldn't speak. Why?"

"Because I caught only a glimpse, and because I hated to be the one to ruin him."

That was the sort of spirit at Ranleigh. Perhaps not always employed wisely and in a right manner. But it did the School honour. At any rate, the boys were sufficiently satisfied with the honour and wisdom of Clive Darrell that they straightway elected him as King of Ranleigh.

PRINTED BY
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PLYMOUTH