This evening he seemed restless, excited.
"Good evening, Mr Fenn," he said. "This way, sir."
Those were his actual words. Fenn had not known for certain until now
that he _could_ talk. On previous occasions their conversations
had been limited to an "Is the headmaster in?" from Fenn, and a
stately inclination of the head from Watson. The man was getting a
positive babbler.
With an eager, springy step, distantly reminiscent of a shopwalker
heading a procession of customers, with a touch of the style of the
winner in a walking-race to Brighton, the once slow-moving butler led
the way to the headmaster's study.
For the first time since he started out, Fenn was conscious of a
tremor. There is something about a closed door, behind which somebody
is waiting to receive one, which appeals to the imagination,
especially if the ensuing meeting is likely to be an unpleasant one.
"Ah, Fenn," said the headmaster. "Come in."
Fenn wondered. It was not in this tone of voice that the Head was wont
to begin a conversation which was going to prove painful.
"You've got your cap, Fenn? I gave it to a small boy in your house to
take to you."
"Yes, sir."
He had given up all hope of understanding the Head's line of action.
Unless he was playing a deep game, and intended to flash out suddenly
with a keen question which it would be impossible to parry, there
seemed nothing to account for the strange absence of anything unusual
in his manner.
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