Coote, as he knew, was Cartwright's fag; he therefore concluded that Cartwright was the writer of the note, and that being so, he pitched the paper unopened into the empty fireplace with a sneer.
He waited for another half-hour, and still Heathcote did not appear.
Pledge didn't like it, and began to grow concerned.

Was it possible, after all, he had made too sure of his young friend?
Partly to pass the time, and partly with the vague idea that might throw some light on the matter, he had the curiosity to pick the neglected billet out of the hearth and open it.
His face went through a strange series of emotions as he read its extraordinary contents:-- Our Dear Pledge,--We think you will like to hear that Heathcote can't fag for you.

He doesn't believe he really promised, but must be excused.

We've made him do it because we don't want him to be made a cad.

He is very sorry, and hopes you won't be a cad and let out about the row we are in.