That night Bourne and I crossed over to Biffen's, and waylaid Acton in his
den. I'm pretty sure there wasn't another room like his in the whole
school. No end of swell pictures--foreign mostly; lovely little books,
which, I believe, were foreign also; an etching of his own place up in
Yorkshire; carpets, and rugs, and little statuettes--swagger through and
through; a little too much so, I believe, for the rules, but Biffen
evidently had not put his foot down. Acton was standing on the hearthrug
with his back to the fire, and on seeing us he politely offered us chairs
with the air of a gentleman and a something of grace, which was a trifle
foreign.

I saw that Acton's polite cordiality nettled Bourne more than a little,
but he solemnly took a chair, and in his blunt, downright fashion, plunged
headlong into the business.

"Only came to say a word or two, Acton, about Thursday's match."

"A very good one," he remarked, with what Corker calls "detached
interest." "Aspinall's accident was more than unfortunate."

"The fact is," said Bourne, bluntly, "neither Carr nor I believe it was an
accident."

"No? What was it, then? Every one else thought it was, though."

"We know better. We know that you deliberately fouled him, and----"

Acton paled, and his eyes glittered viciously, though he said calmly,
"That is a lie."