Robin did not stir.  In the growing gloom of the room his eyes shone like the eyes of an animal, goaded and desperate.  But the man before him showed neither surprise nor anger.  His clean-cut lips were closed in a straight, unyielding line.  For a full minute he looked at Robin and Robin looked at him.

Then he spoke.  “I’ve only one treatment for this sort of thing—­as you know.  It isn’t especially inspiring for either of us.  I shouldn’t qualify for it if I were you.”

Robin had begun to shake again.  The cold, clear words seemed to deprive him of the brief strength he had managed to muster.  His eyes fell before the steady regard that was fixed upon him.  With an incoherent murmur he turned aside, and dropped upon the end of the bench indicated, his trembling hands gripped hard between his knees, his attitude one of utter dejection.

Green went back to his correcting with a frown between his brows, and a deep silence fell.

Minutes passed.  The room grew darker, the atmosphere more leaden.  Pencil in hand, Green went over book after book and put them aside.  Suddenly he looked across at the silent figure.  The humped shoulders were heaving.  Slow tears were falling upon the clasped hands.  There was no sound of any sort.  Green sat and watched, a kind of stern pity replacing the unyielding mastery of his look.  He moved at length, was on the verge of speech, when something checked him.  Footsteps fell beyond the open door, and in a moment a man’s figure appeared entering through the gloom.

“Hullo, Dick!” a voice said.  “You here?  There’s going to be the devil of a storm.  Where’s that scoundrel Robin?”

Robin stirred with a deep sound in his throat like the growl of an angry animal.

Richard Green rose with a sharp movement.  “Jack!  I want a word with you.  Come outside!”

He passed Robin and went to the new-comer, gripping him quickly by the shoulder and turning him back by the way he had come.

Jack submitted to the imperative touch.  He was taller and broader than his elder brother, but he lacked that subtle something—­the distinction of bearing—­which in Richard was very apparent.

“Well, Dick!  What do you want?” he said.  “I’m pretty mad, I can tell you.  I hope you’re going to thrash him well.  Because if you don’t, I shall.”

Briefly and decidedly Dick made answer.  “No, you won’t.  You’ll not touch him.  I shall do—­whatever is necessary.”

“Shall you?” said Jack.  “Then why don’t you shut him up in a wild-beast house?  It’s the only place he’s fit for.”

“Shut up, please!” Richard’s tone was an odd mixture of tolerance and exasperation.  “I’ll manage this affair my own way.  But I’ve got to know the truth of it first.  What made him throw that stone?  Have you been baiting him again?”

“I?” Jack squared his shoulders; a sneer crossed his good-looking face.  “Oh, say I did it!” he drawled.