“That beastly tapeworm Freedham spoilt your game, didn’t he?”

Edgar heard my question, and his lips fumbled with a reply.  The face that he turned upon me was a deep plum-pink from recent running and surmounted with fair hair whose disordered ends were darkened with moisture.

“No,” he said; “at least, I don’t know him.  But what’s it to do with you?”

This remark was sufficiently discouraging to impel me on to my feet and to send me to districts where I should be less unpopular.  I conceived the idea of examining Freedham at nearer range.  Perhaps I was jealous of him.  Though as yet I had no unordinary love for Doe, I had a sense of proprietorship in him which was quickened the minute it was disturbed.  So I moored myself on the railing about three yards from Freedham.  This could easily be managed, Freedham being one of those boys who were always alone.  For a little I pretended to watch the game and then stole a furtive, sideways glance at his lank profile.  I had immediate cause to wish I had done nothing of the sort, for he turned his unholy eyes on mine and so disconcerted me that I swung my face back upon the cricket field and affected complete indifference.  I even hummed a little ditty to show that if any mind was free from the designs of the private detective, mine was.  But my acting was not made easier by the certainty that Freedham’s eyes were steadily examining my burning cheek.  And, if it be possible to see a question in eyes which you are only imagining, I saw in Freedham’s:  “What the blazes do you want?” After giving him time to forget me, I turned again to look at him.  But once more I caught his weird orbs full upon mine, and muttering.  “Oh, dash!” concentrated my attention on the cricket.

A few minutes later the heavy wooden rail on which I was leaning began to vibrate horribly.  I looked in alarm at Freedham.  He was standing rigid, as though sudden death had stiffened him upright.  His left hand was grasping the railing, and through this channel an electric trembling of his whole frame had communicated itself to the wood.  His face was unnaturally red, and his right hand had passed over his heart which it was pressing.  His eyes were fixed on the cricket match.

My first sensation, I confess, was one of pride at being the boy to discover Freedham in what appeared to be a fit.  I went quickly to him and said:  “I say, Freedham.  Freedham, what’s the matter?”

“N-nothing,” he replied, still stiff and trembling.  “But it’s all—­right.  I shall be quite—­fit again in a minute.  Don’t look at me.”

“But shall I get you water or something?”

“No.  It’s all right.  I’ve had these attacks before.  In class sometimes and—­I’ve conquered them, and—­no one’s known anything about them.  So don’t tell anyone about this.  Promise.”

It cost me something to throw away the prospect of telling this thrilling story of which I had exclusive information, but the man in pain is master of us all, so I readily promised.