Mr. Trace had just sailed for America, taking Raymond with him. The full particulars of the past frauds had been for some time known; and the unhappy man had never come out of hiding. He had nothing to fear, legally or criminally, but he could not face the world. Not until this morning, when the news of their sailing for New York reached the boys, had they given up the hope that Raymond might come up to say farewell. And Mr. Lamb, as you will see, intended to take advantage of the fact of his departure. Hopper had disappeared from Orville; nobody knew or cared where. Sir Simon had made short work of his refusal to give him money: though it was very generally suspected that he had again substantially assisted his brother-in-law, Robert Trace. The ceremony of formally investing Talbot with the bit of blue ribbon was over, and the masters left the hall. Up rose the boys with their shouts of congratulation. "Long live the Earl of Shrewsbury!" The earl laughed, and held his hands above his head. "Don't hail me," said he jestingly, "I have but stepped into another's cast-off shoes. Trace gained the prize." "If hailing goes by deserts, you should hail Paradyne," interposed Gall. "But for his withdrawal, Trace would have come off second-best. I know it." "I'll shake hands with the whole of you with pleasure as Trace's deputy," heartily called out George Paradyne. Lamb stepped forward. Never had his face been more virtuous, his voice so candid. "I can't let the opportunity pass without declaring a thing that is in my keeping," he smoothly began. "In that matter of the pistol, fifteen months ago, when Lord Shrewsbury was shot—you all remember it well. It was Trace who did it." Gall wheeled round on Lamb. The rest stood in wonder, listening for more. "And it was Trace who inked that Latin essay of Paradyne's," continued the estimable young man. "I _saw_ him do that, and I know he did the other. As he is gone, it's as well the truth should be known. Trace was a sneak." A good swinging blow in the chest, which sent Mr. Lamb staggering backwards. It came from Bertie Loftus. Never before had Bertie been seen to strike gratuitously. "You are the sneak," he said to Lamb. "Can't you let a fallen fellow alone? Trace is in misfortune, and absent. But for that, you'd not have dared to traduce him, you coward." "It was he who fired off the pistol," roared Lamb, smarting under the blow. "I swear it was. There! It's only lately I got to suspect it, and I taxed Trace with it the morning he left, and he couldn't deny it: he didn't seem to care to; he was too down. You hold your row, Loftus major."