could rely on Grey not to bungle that matter of roll-call. Grey had
been there before.

A long white ribbon of dusty road separated St Austin's from the lodge
gates of Badgwick Hall, the country seat of Sir Alfred Venner, M.P.,
also of 49A Lancaster Gate, London. Barrett walked rapidly for over
half-an-hour before he came in sight of the great iron gates, flanked
on the one side by a trim little lodge and green meadows, and on the
other by woods of a darker green. Having got so far, he went on up the
hill till at last he arrived at his destination. A small hedge, a
sloping strip of green, and then the famous Dingle. I am loath to
inflict any scenic rhapsodies on the reader, but really the Dingle
deserves a line or two. It was the most beautiful spot in a country
noted for its fine scenery. Dense woods were its chief feature. And by
dense I mean well-supplied not only with trees (excellent things in
themselves, but for the most part useless to the nest hunter), but also
with a fascinating tangle of undergrowth, where every bush seemed to
harbour eggs. All carefully preserved, too. That was the chief charm of
the place. Since the sad episodes of Morton-Smith and Ainsworth, the
School for the most part had looked askance at the Dingle. Once a
select party from Dacre's House, headed by Babington, who always got
himself into hot water when possible, had ventured into the forbidden
land, and had returned hurriedly later in the afternoon with every sign
of exhaustion, hinting breathlessly at keepers, dogs, and a pursuit
that had lasted fifty minutes without a check. Since then no one had
been daring enough to brave the terrors so carefully prepared for them
by Milord Sir Venner and his minions, and the proud owner of the Dingle
walked his woods in solitary state. Occasionally he would personally
conduct some favoured guest thither and show him the wonders of the
place. But this was not a frequent occurrence. On still-less frequent