The old Etonian entered as would the guest of the evening who is a few moments late for dinner. He was cheerful, but slightly deprecating. He gave the impression of one who, though sure of his welcome, feels that some slight apology is expected from him. He advanced into the room with a gentle half-smile which suggested good-will to all men. “It is still raining,” he observed. “You wished to see me, sir?” “Sit down, Smith.” “Thank you, sir.” He dropped into a deep arm-chair (which both Adair and Mike had avoided in favour of less luxurious seats) with the confidential cosiness of a fashionable physician calling on a patient, between whom and himself time has broken down the barriers of restraint and formality. Mr. Downing burst out, like a reservoir that has broken its banks. “Smith.” Psmith turned his gaze politely in the housemaster’s direction. “Smith, you came to me a quarter of an hour ago and told me that it was you who had painted my dog Sampson.” “Yes, sir.” “It was absolutely untrue?” “I am afraid so, sir.” “But, Smith--” began the headmaster. Psmith bent forward encouragingly. “----This is a most extraordinary affair. Have you no explanation to offer? What induced you to do such a thing?” Psmith sighed softly. “The craze for notoriety, sir,” he replied sadly. “The curse of the present age.” “What!” cried the headmaster. “It is remarkable,” proceeded Psmith placidly, with the impersonal touch of one lecturing on generalities, “how frequently, when a murder has been committed, one finds men confessing that they have done it when it is out of the question that they should have committed it. It is one of the most interesting problems with which anthropologists are confronted. Human nature----” The headmaster interrupted. “Smith,” he said, “I should like to see you alone for a moment. Mr. Downing might I trouble--? Adair, Jackson.” He made a motion towards the door. When he and Psmith were alone, there was silence. Psmith leaned back comfortably in his chair. The headmaster tapped nervously with his foot on the floor. “Er--Smith.” “Sir?” The headmaster seemed to have some difficulty in proceeding. He paused again. Then he went on. “Er--Smith, I do not for a moment wish to pain you, but have you--er, do you remember ever having had, as a child, let us say, any--er--severe illness? Any--er--_mental_ illness?” “No, sir.” “There is no--forgive me if I am touching on a sad subject--there is no--none of your near relatives have ever suffered in the way I--er--have described?” “There isn’t a lunatic on the list, sir,” said Psmith cheerfully. “Of course, Smith, of course,” said the headmaster hurriedly, “I did not mean to suggest--quite so, quite so.... You think, then, that you confessed to an act which you had not committed purely from some sudden impulse which you cannot explain?” “Strictly between ourselves, sir----”