The dean presided—a large man with reddish hair and pleasant eyes and a jerky, nervous manner.
Inasmuch as it was assistant professor Lowe who had found Catherwood, gagged and tied, that savant was asked to give his opinion, first.
With much natural evasion of the subject, and a cloud of "ahs" and "aws," he explained as lucidly as his slow moving mind would permit how he had rushed into the room to discover his pupil stowed away upon the bed behind a barricade of chairs.
"And, professor," inquired the dean, "you can throw no light upon the case; you have learned nothing—that is to say—oh—ah—nothing that might serve as a clue to the apprehension of the offenders?"
The room became as still as the royal ante-chamber whilst the king dies beyond the arras.
The assistant professor fumbled in his pockets and finally drew out the crumpled note that Catherwood had given him, which he offered the dean, meekly, as becomes a serf in the presence of his master.
The dean pursed his lips and looked down at the sheet.
"Oh—ah," he muttered. And then added, passing it back to the assistant professor, "I—oh—ah—make nothing out of this—nothing at all. It is very simple. It shows that Mr.—oh—ah—Catherwood was assaulted by two—two—persons. But, that, gentlemen, we already know. What we now wish to learn is: Who were they?"
The assistant professor shook his head, wearily.
"Yes, yes," he muttered.