That broken phial, you have heard of, was burning a hole in Bywater’s pocket, as Roland Yorke had said the bank-note did in his. He had been undecided about complaining to the master; strangely so for Bywater. The fact was, he had had a strong suspicion, from the very first, that the boy who did the damage to the surplice was Pierce senior. At least, his suspicions had been divided between that gentleman and Gerald Yorke. The cause of suspicion against Pierce need not be entered into, since it was misplaced. In point of fact, Mr. Pierce was, so far as that feat went, both innocent and unconscious. But Bywater could not be sure that he was, and he did not care to bring the accusation publicly against Gerald, should he be innocent.

You saw Bywater, a chapter or two back, fitting the broken pieces together in his bedroom. On the following morning—it was also the morning following the arrival of the important letter from Roland Yorke—Bywater detained Gerald Yorke when the boys tore down the schoolroom steps after early school.

“I say, Yorke, I said I’d give you a last chance, and now I am doing it,” he began. “If you’ll acknowledge the truth to me about that surplice affair, I’ll let it drop. I will, upon my honour. I’ll never say another word about it.”

Gerald flew into a rage. “Now look you here, Mr. Bywater,” was his angry retort. “You bother me again with that stale fish, and I’ll put you up for punishment. It’s—”

Gerald stopped. Tom Channing was passing close to them, and Mr. Gerald had never cared to be heard, when talking about the surplice. At that moment a group of boys, who were running out of the cloisters, the opposite road to Tom Channing, turned round and hissed him, Tod Yorke adding some complimentary remark about “stolen notes.” As usual, it was a shaft launched at Arthur. Not as usual did Tom receive it. There was nothing of fierce defiance now in his demeanour; nothing of half-subdued rage. Tom halted; took off his trencher with a smile of suavity that might have adorned Hamish, and thanked them with as much courtesy as if it had been real, especially Tod. Gerald Yorke and Bywater looked on with surprise. They little dreamt of the great secret that Tom now carried within him. He could afford to be calm.

“Why, it’s four months, good, since that surplice was damaged,” resumed Gerald, in a tone of irritation, to Bywater, as soon as they were alone again. “One would think it was of rare value, by your keeping up the ball in this way. Every now and then you break out afresh about that surplice. Was it made of gold?”

“It was made of Irish linen,” returned Bywater, who generally contrived to retain his coolness, whoever might grow heated. “I tell you that I have a fresh clue, Yorke; one I have been waiting for. I thought it would turn up some time. If you say you did it, by accident or how you like, I’ll let it drop. If you don’t, I’ll bring it before Pye after breakfast.”

“Bring it,” retorted Gerald.

“Mind you, I mean what I say. I shall bring the charge against you, and I have the proofs.”

“Bring it, I say!” fiercely repeated Gerald. “Who cares for your bringings? Mind your bones afterwards, that’s all!”

He pushed Bywater from him with a haughty gesture, and raced home to breakfast, hoping there would be something good to assuage his hunger.

But Bywater was not to be turned from his determination. Never a boy in the school less likely than he. He went home to his breakfast, and returned to school to have his name inscribed on the roll, and then went into college with the other nine choristers, and took his part in the service. And the bottle, I say, was burning a hole in his pocket. The Reverend William Yorke was chanting, and Arthur Channing sat at the organ. Would the Very Reverend the Dean of Helstonleigh, standing in his stall so serenely placid, his cap resting on the cushion beside him, ever again intimate a doubt that Arthur was not worthy to take part in the service? But the dean did not know the news yet.

Back in the school-room, Bywater lost no time. He presented himself before the master, and entered upon his complaint, schoolboy fashion.

“Please, sir, I think I have found out who inked my surplice.”

The master had allowed the occurrence to slip partially from his memory. At any rate, it was some time since he had called it up. “Oh, indeed!” said he somewhat cynically, to Bywater, after a pause given to revolving the circumstances. “Think you have found out the boy, do you?”

“Yes, sir; I am pretty sure of it. I think it was Gerald Yorke.”

“Gerald Yorke! One of the seniors!” repeated the master, casting a penetrating gaze upon Bywater.

The fact was, Mr. Pye, at the time of the occurrence, had been somewhat inclined to a secret belief that the real culprit was Bywater himself. Knowing that gentleman’s propensity to mischief, knowing that the destruction of a few surplices, more or less, would be only fun to him, he had felt an unpleasant doubt upon the point. “Did you do it yourself?” he now plainly asked of Bywater.

Bywater for once was genuinely surprised. “I had no more to do with it, sir, than this desk had,” touching the master’s. “I should not have spent many an hour since, trying to ferret it out, if I had done it.”

“Well, what have you found out?”

“On the day it happened, sir, when we were discussing it in the cloisters, little Channing suddenly started up with a word that caused me to think he had seen something connected with it, in which Gerald Yorke was mixed up. But the boy recollected himself before he had said much, and I could get no more from him. Once afterwards I heard him tell Yorke that he had kept counsel about the inked surplice.”

“Is that all?” asked the master, while the whole school sat with tingling ears, for Bywater was not making his complaint in private.

“Not quite, sir. Please to look at this.”

Bywater had whipped the broken phial out of his pocket, and was handing the smaller piece towards the master. Mr. Pye looked at it curiously.

“As I was turning over my surplice, sir, in the vestry, when I found it that day, I saw this bi............