A full hour passed before the figure of one who was weary and inordinately cold appeared with decided caution at the little gate beside the school pavilion and, climbing over, began to trudge disappointedly along the line of trees right round the outskirts of the playing fields towards Morley’s. It was Rouse, and he had both hands rammed into his trouser pockets and the collar of his coat turned up around his neck. There was an atmosphere about the school that was unusually lonely, and he felt it. His errand had proved utterly fruitless. He had no particular idea how he was going to get in again. He missed the company of Terence. His intention to keep in the shadows was taking him a long way round and he was in no mood to enjoy the walk. Altogether things were rotten. At last he came to Morley’s and stopped to look up for a moment at the forbidding walls. Then he moved with a kind of ill-humoured curiosity to the hall window. There came back to him the memory of a night of long ago when he and Terence had as youngsters crouched below that selfsame window to find themselves locked out, and how at last a small boy had tiptoed down the stairs to their rescue, had opened the window without a word and let them in, and had then gone peaceably to bed. That small boy had been Henry Hope. Rouse gazed at the window now with the affection of an old friend. Terence must surely have made some plan to effect his entry without his having to ring the front-door bell. His hand reached out and passed cautiously across the window-pane. Then he seized the framework and tried it gingerly. Without a moment’s delay there came the sound of a gentle movement within, and he perceived a long arm reaching towards him behind the glass. Next the window was slowly raised and a tousled head of hair was thrust out into the night. Rouse raised himself on to his toes and inclined his body forward. It was Terence, and he spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t make too much row. Has anybody seen you? Have you had any luck?” Rouse levered himself on to the window-sill and poised there miserably for a moment before he answered, and even then he did not speak. He just shook his head dismally and scrambled in. And then he sneezed. Terence seized him in a steely grip and thrust a handkerchief violently into his face. But Rouse freed himself vexedly, listened a moment for any sign of alarm, and then proceeded, in the time-honoured manner of all who keep late hours, to remove his boots. He turned once before beginning to climb the staircase and looked thoughtfully through the darkness at the shape that was Terence. “You have not,” said he softly, “such a thing as a hot drink concealed about your person, I presume?” Terence slowly lowered the window and secured it with the latch. When he turned he shook his head regretfully. “Thank you,” whispered Rouse. “That’s all I wanted to know.”