The next moment he opened it and quietly entered, for Robin was sobbing as if his heart would break. There was no light in the room save that which shone from the park-gates opposite and the candle he himself carried. Robin was sunk in a heap against the bed still fully dressed. He gave a great start at his brother's coming, shrinking together in a fashion that seemed to make him smaller. His sobbing ceased on the instant. He became absolutely still, his claw-like hands rigidly gripped on the bedclothes, his face wholly hidden. He did not even breathe during the few tense seconds that Dick stood looking down at him. He might have been a creature carved in granite. Then Dick set down his candle, went to him, sat on the low bed, and pulled the shaggy head on to his knee. "What's the matter, old chap?" he said. All the tension went out of Robin at his touch. He clung to him in voiceless distress. Dick's heart smote him. Why had he left the boy so long? He laid a very gentle hand upon him. "Come, old chap!" he said. "Get a hold on yourself! What's it all about?" Robin's shoulders heaved convulsively; his hold tightened. He murmured some inarticulate words. Dick bent over him. "What, boy? What? I can't hear. You haven't been up to any mischief, have you? Robin, have you?" A sudden misgiving assailed him. "You haven't hurt anybody? Not Jack, for instance?" "No," Robin said. But he added a moment later with a concentrated passion that sounded inexpressibly vindictive, "I hate him! I do hate him! I wish he was dead!" "Why?" Dick said. "What has he been doing?" But Robin burrowed lower and made no answer. Dick sat for a space in silence, waiting for him to recover himself. He knew very well that he had good reason for his rooted dislike for Jack. It was useless to attempt any argument on that point. But when Robin had grown calmer, he returned to the charge very quietly but with determination. "What has Jack been doing or saying? Tell me! I've got to know." Robin stirred uneasily. "Don't want to tell you, Dicky," he said. Dick's hand pressed a little upon him. "You must tell me," he said. "When did you meet him?" Robin hesitated in obvious reluctance. "It was after supper," he said. "My head ached, and I went outside, and he came down the drive. And he--and he laughed about--about you coming home alone from Burchester, and said--said that your game was up anyhow. And I didn't know what he meant, Dicky--" Robin's arms suddenly clung closer--"but I got angry, because I hate him to talk about you. And I--I went for him, Dicky." His voice dropped on a shamed note, and he became silent. "Well?" Dick said gravely. "What happened then?" Very unwillingly Robin responded to his insistence. "He got hold of me--so that I couldn't hurt him--and then he said--he said--" A great sob rose in his throat choking his utterance. "What did he say?" There was a certain austerity in Dick's question. Robin shivered as it reached him.