Mike was conscious of a feeling of acute depression. It did not make him in the least degree jubilant, or even thankful, to know that he himself was cleared of the charge. All he could think of was that Psmith was done for. This was bound to mean the sack. If Psmith had painted Sammy, it meant that Psmith had broken out of his house at night: and it was not likely that the rules about nocturnal wandering were less strict at Sedleigh than at any other school in the kingdom. Mike felt, if possible, worse than he had felt when Wyatt had been caught on a similar occasion. It seemed as if Fate had a special grudge against his best friends. He did not make friends very quickly or easily, though he had always had scores of acquaintances--and with Wyatt and Psmith he had found himself at home from the first moment he had met them. He sat there, with a curious feeling of having swallowed a heavy weight, hardly listening to what Mr. Downing was saying. Mr. Downing was talking rapidly to the headmaster, who was nodding from time to time. Mike took advantage of a pause to get up. “May I go, sir?” he said. “Certainly, Jackson, certainly,” said the Head. “Oh, and er--, if you are going back to your house, tell Smith that I should like to see him.” “Yes, sir.” He had reached the door, when again there was a knock. “Come in,” said the headmaster. It was Adair. “Yes, Adair?” Adair was breathing rather heavily, as if he had been running. “It was about Sammy--Sampson, sir,” he said, looking at Mr. Downing. “Ah, we know--. Well, Adair, what did you wish to say.” “It wasn’t Jackson who did it, sir.” “No, no, Adair. So Mr. Downing----” “It was Dunster, sir.” Terrific sensation! The headmaster gave a sort of strangled yelp of astonishment. Mr. Downing leaped in his chair. Mike’s eyes opened to their fullest extent. “Adair!” There was almost a wail in the headmaster’s voice. The situation had suddenly become too much for him. His brain was swimming. That Mike, despite the evidence against him, should be innocent, was curious, perhaps, but not particularly startling. But that Adair should inform him, two minutes after Mr. Downing’s announcement of Psmith’s confession, that Psmith, too, was guiltless, and that the real criminal was Dunster--it was this that made him feel that somebody, in the words of an American author, had played a mean trick on him, and substituted for his brain a side-order of cauliflower. Why Dunster, of all people? Dunster, who, he remembered dizzily, had left the school at Christmas. And why, if Dunster had really painted the dog, had Psmith asserted that he himself was the culprit? Why--why anything? He concentrated his mind on Adair as the only person who could save him from impending brain-fever. “Adair!” “Yes, sir?” “What--_what_ do you mean?”