“Yes, yes, I know. That is, Elizabeth――I should say my wife――has spoken of you. You are occupying――er――the southwest chamber. Very glad indeed to have you with us, Mister――er――” “Just ‘Barry,’ sir. Thank you.” Barry nodded and went his way. Mr. Benjy watched him over the edge of his paper until he had disappeared. “Fine boy,” he murmured. “Davy was rather like him when he―― Hm!” Mr. Benjy frowned, sighed, and rustled the paper back into position a few inches from his glasses. Barry found himself surprisingly hungry for his supper and did excellently by it. The boy on his right, overcoming his shyness, ventured a remark, half-way through the repast, and for the rest of the time they conversed quite busily. Barry had been slightly curious about this boy, whose name, it now appeared, was Fessenden. He was fourteen, Barry guessed, and in the Fourth Class. He had dark hair that refused to yield to the brush, heavy brows and long lashes over somewhat dreamy brown eyes, and pale cheeks that reddened easily. A shy, sensitive boy, and attractive in a way, Barry concluded. He evidently was finding life at Broadmoor School none too joyous, although he didn’t say so outright. Barry surmised that he, too, was feeling lonely and perhaps homesick, and he would have been glad to lend companionship to the younger lad had he not agreed to look up Clyde. As it was, they parted outside Bates, Fessenden, ere he turned toward the library entrance, nodding shy gratitude for the other’s friendliness. There was an atmosphere of unrest about the campus that evening, and a tendency to loiter about the oval and before the steps of the buildings. Barry wondered for a moment what was in the air, but forgot his curiosity in the discovery that Number 42 was empty. His first impulse was to take advantage of the fact and so avoid an evening which offered scant attraction for him, but second thoughts held him to his promise and he switched on the lights, picked up a magazine, and set himself to await Clyde’s return. He found a story absorbing enough to hold his close attention for nearly an hour. Then, as Clyde was still absent, he decided that he was at liberty to leave, and turned out the lights and sought the stairway. Had he been better acquainted with Dawson Hall under normal conditions he would have noticed an unusual quiet. Here and there, from some open door, the sound of voices reached the corridor, but for the most part the rooms were dark. On the steps a few fellows lingered as though waiting for something to happen, but these things made no impression on Barry, and he took the path past the end of Croft and went on briskly down the drive, toward home. He had just emerged into the road when, in the increasing gloom, a flood of white light beat into his face, forcing a startled gasp from him as he recoiled.