A few of the most ardent Parrett's juniors took the liberty of hissing him and one ventured to call out, pointedly, "Who cut the rudder-lines ?" Riddell, however, though he winced under these insults, took little notice of them.

He was as determined as ever to wait the confirmation of his suspicions before he unmasked the culprit, and equally convinced that duty and honour both demanded that he should lose not a moment in coming to a conclusion.
It was in the midst of these reflections that the small book which Wyndham had seen him pick up caught his eye.

He picked it up mechanically, and after noticing that it appeared to be a notebook, and had no owner's name in the beginning, carried it with him, and forgot all about it till he reached his study.
Even here it was some time before it again attracted his attention, as its importance was wholly eclipsed by the contents of a note which he found lying on his table, and which ran as follows: "Dear Riddell,--Will you join us at tea this evening at seven?
I expect Fairbairn and Bloomfield.
"Yours faithfully,-- "R.

Patrick." Riddell groaned.

Had he not had trouble, and humiliation, and misery enough?
What had he done to deserve this crowning torture?
Tea with the Griffins! He sat down and wrote, as in politeness bound, that he would have much pleasure in accepting the doctor's kind invitation, and, sending the note off by Cusack, resigned himself to the awful prospect, which for a time shut out everything else.
However, he had no right, he felt, to be idle.