The door opened and Catherwood, streaked of face and hollow eyed, stood upon the threshold.
The president rose.
"Ah, Mr. Catherwood," he exclaimed, smiling.
He advanced upon his caller with outstretched hand.
Catherwood was not conscious of the warm clasp; he only knew one thing—that he had been summoned and that now he was in the presence of the genius of the institution of which he himself was a little part.
"You—you sent for me, sir," he managed to say.
"Yes—ah—you got my note of course. Sit down."
The president seated himself at his desk and wheeled that he might face the odd creature near the door.
"Well, well, Mr. Catherwood," he exclaimed, after a moment, "they appear to have been treating you rather badly, eh?"
Catherwood pleaded with his eyes alone.