"It would seem to me, gentlemen, that we are on the wrong track; what? It would seem to me that there is a way--a sure way--of apprehending the villains who seem to have worsted our young friend, Mr. Catherwood; what?" Every man in the room leaned forward, and again the hush became awesome. "And it is?" observed the dean, very soberly. "_That we compare the handwriting of that note with all the students' signatures in our possession; what?_" There ensued a general exchange of puzzled looks and then the dean exclaimed: "A very good idea, my dear professor--oh--ah--a most ingenious idea; but--oh--ah--would _you_ be willing to undertake to make the suggested comparisons?" "Well I thought the clerks in the registrar's office might----" "Very good--_very_ good!" said the dean--"I believe there are about thirty-five hundred such signatures--oh--ah--quite a week's work for the entire office force--quite----" Several of his colleagues openly congratulated the boy-faced genius who seemed to them to be the only man with a plan worthy of adoption. Amid the general exchange of felicitations before which the genius blushed and stammered his confusion, assistant professor Lowe rose and caught the eye of the dean. "Order--oh--ah--order, gentlemen!" the latter called. "Professor Lowe seems to have a word----" "It's just a word," was the reply, "but, gentlemen, the plan suggested can be of no avail and for a very simple reason----" He looked down at the boy-faced junior professor in astronomy who had formulated the plan referred to and who looked up at him, weakly, sufferingly. "And what is the reason?" inquired the dean severely, loth to have a theory declared impracticable which he had seemed to favor. "It is that this note was written--ingeniously I am willing to admit--by a right handed person, who, to disguise his writing, wrote with his left hand in what we call the 'back-hand' style. All writings, under such circumstances, are alike. My authority, gentlemen, is Dumas; of whom some of you may have heard." And with this cuttingly sarcastic speech the assistant professor of history sat down. There was an instant's silence, broken by the old gentleman at the back of the room who had fallen asleep some minutes before. Awakening, just as assistant professor Lowe delivered his retort, he had heard but a word, and that word was pleasant to his aged ear. "What's that?" he called. No one assumed the task of explaining to him and he dozed off again. As it was, for three hours, upward of seventy-five full-blooded, able-bodied men wrangled over an affair that little Green had assumed the responsibility of making clear to the wider world outside. Theories, opinions, solutions, were flung at the dean until he felt his head swim, and saw double. In the entire assemblage there was but one who had taken no active part in the discussion, but, rather, had appeared to look on merely, an interested, if at times annoyed, spectator--the professor of French.