"Well, well; what does it all mean, Mr. Catherwood?" he went on, kindly. "You've no enemies here, have you——"
The young man brightened perceptibly—"Not one, sir; that is to say, not one that I know of," he added, less brightly.
"Ah, so I'm told. How do you account for this attack upon you, then?"
Catherwood's eyes dropped to the carpet. The president watched him covertly, fumbling the seal that dangled from his watch-chain.
"I can't," Catherwood replied at last, looking up.
"No, of course you can't. I hardly expected you could," the president exclaimed. "But, Mr. Catherwood"—he spoke slowly—"have you no idea who it was committed this most dastardly assault upon you?"
There was an instant's silence during which Catherwood followed the scroll design of the carpet up one row and down another.
"Yes, sir—I have."
"Who?" The president leaned forward.
"I don't feel justified in saying, sir."