CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
EVERYTHING GONE WRONG.
Riddell was fairly committed to his task now.

Like the good old general who burned his ships when he landed on the enemy's shores, he had cut off from himself the slightest possibility of a retreat, and must now either go right through with the matter or confess himself a miserable failure.
The consciousness of this nerved him with unlooked-for courage, and he walked from the Parliament that afternoon a very different being from the boy who had entered it.

He had entered it cowed, irresolute, wretched; he left it indeed still wretched, but with his spirit roused and his mind made up.

His duty lay clear before him, and whatever it cost he must do it.
Whether Wibberly was himself the writer of the mysterious letter, or whether some one had prompted him to ask the question, or whether his asking it just at this time was a mere coincidence, he did not trouble to decide.
He felt rather grateful to him than otherwise for having asked it, just as one is occasionally grateful to the thunder-clap for clearing the air.
The first thing without doubt was to find Wyndham, and come to a clear understanding as to whether or not he was the culprit; and the captain lost no time in attempting to put this resolve into practice.
It would not do, he knew, immediately after the scene in the Parliament, when everybody would be on the tip-toe of curiosity, to be seen holding a secret interview with any particular boy.

He therefore decided wisely to wait till the usual time when Wyndham was in the habit of coming to his study to do his lessons.