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 placidty, with the impersonal touch of one lecturing on generalities, "how frequently, when a murder has been committed,
