"Well, Mr. Catherwood——" The voice again.
He turned slowly. His face was pale beneath the disfiguring streaks and stripes of brown.
"I—I—I confess, sir—I confess."
He flung himself into the chair at the end of the desk and covering his poor face with his two hands, sobbed aloud.
The president waited for the paroxysm to pass.
"Why did you do it, Mr. Catherwood?" he asked, quietly.
"I—I—was afraid of that history examination." The reply came faint.
Turning his face away, he stood up. He groped for his hat.
"But wait a moment, Mr. Catherwood."
Shame-faced the impostor turned, his hand upon the knob of the door.