Finch was not seen about the school again that day. At nightfall he returned from the Woods where he had taken refuge, bought himself a bun or so at the Pie-house, for he was nearly famished, and having thus made a frugal supper, at eight o’clock he presented himself at the door of Mr. Roylston’s study in Howard House. The master had no doubt in his mind that he had detected a flagrant case of cheating, a crime that was above all others abominable in his eyes. He bade Finch enter, when he heard his soft knock at his door, and then let him stand awkwardly a moment or so while he examined him critically. The haggard face, the hunted look, seemed to him those of a criminal. “Ah!” he said at last, “you are here.” “Yes—I am here,” Finch answered sullenly. “What do you want with me!” “Don’t forget yourself. Incidentally, I may say, that you have involved yourself in an excessive number of late marks, if not in more serious trouble, by your prolonged absence to-day.” “I’ll attend to that. What do you want with me?” “In the first place, and instantly,” said Mr. Roylston in acid tones, “I want a respectful demeanor.” Finch bit his lips. “I’m sorry.... But I’ll take what’s coming to me for being away to-day. You told me to report to you at eight o’clock. I am here.” “Yes,” observed the master, “you are here. To come to the point——” “Yes, yes,—why did you take my examination book?” Mr. Roylston had not gauged the boy’s attitude as yet. He supposed he would lie—that kind of a boy usually did. He sought Finch’s weak troubled eyes with a piercing glance. “I took it,” he said, in a cold judicial voice, “because you were cheating.” “I was not cheating!” Finch exclaimed passionately. Mr. Roylston smiled patiently. “The evidence is sufficiently strong as scarcely to admit of mistake. You may affect to deny it; but I tell you candidly, young man, I have suspected you before; and further, you will scarcely be surprised to hear that I have very little confidence in your word.” Finch gulped. “I was not cheating!” he repeated, but in trembling tones. For the moment despair got the better of the determination in which he had come to keep that appointment. He had cheated before. A wave of emotion swept over him, and he swayed for a moment from sheer physical weakness. What difference did it make? he felt. He did not care. A wild impulse seized him to tell the truth boldly. He would tell everything, confess everything, but about that one thing he would be believed. It was the end, he knew; but he would not have the end come and himself be involved, convicted, of what was not true. There was enough that was. The master was looking at him coldly, but for the moment was saying nothing. Finch put his hand out to a near-by table to steady himself. “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Roylston, a gleam of triumph in his sharp black eyes, “I see that you do not mean to dispute me.” “Do you want the truth?” cried Finch, meeting the master’s eye again with a fierce look.