"Your study? Why, what have they got against you?"
"I don't know," said Trevor. Nothing was to be gained by speaking of
the letters he had received.
"Did they cut up your photographs?"
"Every one."
"I tell you what it is, Trevor, old chap," said Milton, with great
solemnity, "there's a lunatic in the school. That's what I make of it.
A lunatic whose form of madness is wrecking studies."
"But the same chap couldn't have done yours and mine. It must have been
a Donaldson's fellow who did mine, and one of your chaps who did yours
and Mill's."
"Mill's? By Jove, of course. I never thought of that. That was the
League, too, I suppose?"
"Yes. One of those cards was tied to a chair, but Clowes took it away
before anybody saw it."
Milton returned to the details of the disaster.
"Was there any ink spilt in your room?"
"Pints," said Trevor, shortly. The subject was painful.
"So there was here," said Milton, mournfully. "Gallons."
There was silence for a while, each pondering over his wrongs.
"Gallons," said Milton again.
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