A dozen years before, aged 12, I had once been accused of stealing by the headmaster of the private school I adorned in Sevenoaks. I was innocent, but the evidence was both ludicrous and damning, so damning, indeed, that, strangely, I _felt_ guilty and accepted the punishment. A terrifying experience, it haunted me for years, and the sight of a policeman, or the words “criminal judge,” sent shivers down my spine long afterwards. When a little older, I came to suspect that it was worked up against me by the master to curry favour with an influential parent; but at the actual time I had visions even of prison--for something I had not done. All about a poem, too! At evening “prep” a “bit of poetry,” as we called it, had to be learnt by heart; my own poetry book was lost; I borrowed young Gildea’s. The last thing in the world I wanted to own was that poetry book of young Gildea, the last thing I wanted to do was to learn that poem by heart. I spent the hour, therefore, inscribing my name with elaborate flourishes on the title page. Twice I wrote it, with capitals, of which I was very proud; I thought it ornate and beautiful; and when the hour was over I tossed the book into my locker and forgot all about it. Next morning I was summoned into the headmaster’s presence. He wore red whiskers about an otherwise clean-shaven face: a face of natural sternness, with a big nose, a mouth of iron, and steely blue eyes. He was a clergyman of evangelical persuasion. I had no idea why I had been summoned, but his glance made me at once feel uneasy. “Blackwood minor,” he said in a solemn and portentous voice, “did you do--_this_?” He held out Gildea’s poetry book towards me with the cover open. His finger pointed to my name in pencil, flourishes and all. I was completely puzzled as to what was coming, but I admitted the signature of course. “Is the book yours?” he asked. I said it was not. “Gildea has reported the loss of his own copy,” the voice of doom went on. “It has been found--_in your locker_--and with _your name written_ in it.” The voice made me think of “and God spake” in the Bible. He looked at me in such a way that I felt sure I was going to be flogged. What had I done? And why? I couldn’t quite remember. No explanation came to me. The simple truth was too silly to mention. I had nothing to say except to admit everything. The man, with his awful manner and appalling aspect, terrified me. I stood speechless and paralysed, wondering what was coming next. The red whiskers made me think of Satan. I little dreamed, however, that the headmaster would say what he then did say. He spoke with a terribly slow, deliberate emphasis. “This is as grave a case of stealing,” fell the awful words of judgment, “as ever came before a _Criminal Judge_. I have sent for your father.” I was petrified. It was enough to frighten any boy into his boots.