When he was outside the room, in the darkness between the inner and the outer doors, his resentment rose to fever-pitch. He stopped, battling with it, half inclined to re-enter the study and make a scene, yet realising with the sane part of him that he could not better his position by so doing. Merely as an outlet for tempestuous indignation, however, the idea of returning to the fray attracted him, and he paused in the darkness, arguing with himself. Then all at once his attention was rivetted by the sound, sharp and clear, of Mrs. Ervine's voice. She had entered the study from the other door, and he heard soft steps treading across the carpet. "Did you tell him?" he heard her say. And the Head's voice boomed back: "Yes, my dear. Um yes--I told him." A grim, cautious smile crept over Speed's mouth. He put his ear to the hinge of the inner door and listened desperately. He heard again the voice of Mrs. Ervine. "Did you tell him he might have to quit Lavery's at the end of the term?" "I--um--well--I didn't exactly put it to him--so--um--so definitely. It seemed to me there was no--um--no necessity. He may be all right, even yet, you know. "He won't. He's too young. And he's lost too much ground already." "I always thought he was too--um--too youthful, my dear. But you overruled my----" "Well, and you know why I did, don't you? Oh, I've no patience with you. Nothing's done unless I do it." "My dear, I--um--I assure you----" He heard footsteps approaching along the outside corridor and feared that it might be people coming to see the Head. In that case they would pull open the outer door and find him eavesdropping. That would never do. He quietly pushed the outer door and emerged into the corridor. A small boy, seeing him, asked timidly: "Is the Head in, sir?" Speed replied grimly: "Yes, he's in, but he's busy at present." After all, he had heard enough. Behind the Head, ponderous and archaic, stood now the sinister figure of Mrs. Ervine, mistress of malevolent intrigue. In a curious half-humorous, half-contemptuous sense, he felt sorry for the Head. Poor devil!--everlastingly chained to Millstead, always working the solemn, rhythmic treadmill, with a wife beside him as sharp as a knife-edge.... Speed walked across to Lavery's, pale-faced and smiling. II The Annual Athletic Sports. It was raining hard. He stood by the tape, stopwatch in hand, distributing measured encouragement and congratulation, and fulfilling his allotted rôle of timekeeper. "Well run, Herbert," he managed to say with a show of interest. "Not bad, indeed, sir ... eleven and two-fifths seconds." ... "Well done, Roberts.... Hard luck, Hearnshaw--pity you didn't sprint harder at the finish, eh? ... Herbert first, Roberts second, Hearnshaw third."