It was the Professor's voice.
"—I wish to see in my office Bertram Weatherby and Peter Wynne."
They heard aghast. The whole school turned to them. The Past rose dreadfully before their startled vision, yet for once, it seems, they could find no blemish there.
Down-stairs, quaking, they slipped together through the office door. The Professor had not arrived. They took their stations farthest from his chair, and leaned, wondering, for support against the wall. There was a murmur of assembling classes overhead, a hurry of belated feet, and then—that well-known, awful tread. Peter gulped; Bertram shifted his feet, his heart thumping against his ribs, but they squared their shoulders as the door flew open and the Professor, his face grave, his eyes flashing, swooped down upon them in the little room.
"Bertram!"
"Yes, sir."
"Peter!"
"Yes, sir."
"I have sent for you to answer a most serious charge—most serious, indeed. I am surprised. I am astonished. Two of my best pupils, two whom I have praised, not once but many times, here in this very room—two, I may say, of my favorite boys found violating, wilfully violating, the rules of this school. I could not believe the charge till I saw the evidence with my own eyes. I could not believe that boys like you—boys of good families, boys with minds far above the average of their age, would despoil, openly despoil—yes, I may say, ruthlessly despoil—the property of this school, descending—"