It was just before ten that Willard received the disturbing message from the school office. Mr. Wharton, the secretary, desired to see him immediately after twelve. Oddly, perhaps, Willard failed to connect the summons with the Hillsport episode for some time. All during his ten o’clock recitation he subconsciously tried to think of some neglected study or duty that would account for the secretary’s desire for his company, and it wasn’t until he had disposed of that explanation by the slow process of elimination that Saturday night’s affair obtruded itself. He didn’t allow that to alarm him, though. After all, a mere prank of that sort, common wherever there were boys’ schools, couldn’t be taken very seriously. In any case, he would get off with a reprimand. What bothered him more was the question of how Mr. Wharton had managed to associate him with the affair, and he wondered whether Martin and the others were wanted at the office also. He hoped to run across one or the other of them and compare notes, but luck was against him, and as soon as he was released from classroom at twelve he set forth a trifle uneasily down the corridor to the office. He had to wait several minutes while the secretary heard and denied a freckle-faced freshman’s request for leave of absence over the next Sunday and then he made his identity known and received a distinct shock when Mr. Wharton jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said: “Doctor McPherson.” The thumb indicated a closed door across the width of the outer office. Although Willard had never passed through that portal, he knew that it admitted to the Principal’s sanctum. His confidence waned as he opened the gate in the railing, heard it click behind him and hesitated before the blank portal. “You needn’t knock,” said the secretary, over his shoulder. “The Doctor expects you.” Willard thought the latter sentence sounded horribly grim! The Principal’s office, unlike the outer room, was large and spacious, with a flood of pale light entering by three big windows that overlooked the Green. A half-dozen mahogany armchairs stood about the room, a wide bookcase almost filled one wall space and a huge table-desk, remarkably free from books or papers occupied the geometrical center of the soft green rug. At the desk, his back toward the windows, sat Doctor Maitland McPherson, a man of well under fifty years, thin-visaged, clean-shaven, somewhat bald. He laid aside the book he had been reading at Willard’s entrance, slipping an ivory marker between the pages before he closed it, and nodded pleasantly. “Harmon?” he asked. “Yes, sir.” “Bring one of those chairs here, please, and be seated.”