He went into Hall. He sat amongst the particular group of his own year who were considered the _elite_. There was Cardillac there, brilliant, flashing Cardillac. There was Bobby Galleon, fat, good-natured, sleepy, intelligent in an odd bovine way. There was Craven, young, ardent, hail-fellow-well-met. There was Lawrence, burly back for the University in Rugby, unintelligent, kind and good-tempered unless he were drunk. There were others. They all sat in their glory, noisily happy. Somewhere in the distance on a raised dais were the Dons gravely pompous. Every now and again word was brought that the gentlemen were making too much noise. The Master might be observed drinking elaborately, ceremoniously with some guest. Madden, the Service Tutor, flung his shrill treble voice above the general hubbub-- "But, my dear Ross, if you had only observed---" "Where is Carfax?" came suddenly from Lawrence. He asked Craven, who was, of course, the devoted friend of Carfax. Craven had large brown eyes, a charming smile, a prominent chin, rather fat routed cheeks and short brown hair that curled a little. He gave the impression of eager good-temper and friendliness. To-night he looked worried. "I don't know," he said, "I can't understand it. He said this morning that he'd be here to-night and make up a four at Bridge. He went off to see an aunt or some one at Grantchester!" "Perhaps," said Bobby Galleon gravely, "he had an exeat and has gone up to town." "But he'd have said something--sure. And the porter hasn't seen him. He would have been certain to know." Olva was never expected to talk much. His reserve was indeed rather popular. The entirely normal and ordinary men around him appreciated this mystery. "Rum fellow, Dune . . . nobody knows him." His high dark colour, his dignity, his courtesy had about it something distinguished and romantic. "He'll do something wonderful one day, _you_ bet. Why, if he only chose to play up at footer there's nothing he couldn't do." Even the brilliant Cardillac, thin, dark, handsome leader of fashion and society, admitted the charm. Now, however, Olva, looking up, quietly said-- "I expect his aunt's kept him to dinner. _He'll_ turn up." But of course he wouldn't turn up. He was lying in the heart of that crushed, dripping fern with his leg doubled under him. It wasn't often that one killed a man with one blow; the signet ring that he wore on the little finger of his right hand--a Dune ring of great antiquity--must have had something to do with it. He turned it round thoughtfully on his finger. Robert, an old, old trembling waiter, said in a shaking voice-- "There's salmi of wild game, sir--roast beef." "Beef, please," Olva said quietly. He was considering now that all these men would to-morrow night have only one thought, one idea. They would remember everything, the very slightest thing that he had done. They would discuss it all from every possible point of view.