“The end of the year!” I cried, the predicament striking me for the first time in its fulness.  “Say, you’ve got a crust!”

“You’ll do it, if I have to hold a gun over you,” he announced grimly.

Mingled with my anxiety, which was real, was an exultation that would not down.  Nevertheless, the idea of developing Tom into a Shakespeare,—­Tom, who had not the slightest desire to be one I was appalling, besides having in it an element of useless self-sacrifice from which I recoiled.  On the other hand, if Alonzo should discover that I had written his theme, there were penalties I did not care to dwell upon ....  With such a cloud hanging over me I passed a restless night.

As luck would have it the very next evening in the level light under the elms of the Square I beheld sauntering towards me a dapper figure which I recognized as that of Mr. Cheyne himself.  As I saluted him he gave me an amused and most disconcerting glance; and when I was congratulating myself that he had passed me he stopped.

“Fine weather for March, Paret,” he observed.

“Yes, sir,” I agreed in a strange voice.

“By the way,” he remarked, contemplating the bare branches above our heads, “that was an excellent theme your roommate handed in.  I had no idea that he possessed such—­such genius.  Did you, by any chance, happen to read it?”

“Yes, sir,—­I read it.”

“Weren’t you surprised?” inquired Mr. Cheyne.

“Well, yes, sir—­that is—­I mean to say he talks just like that, sometimes—­that is, when it’s anything he cares about.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Cheyne.  “That’s interesting, most interesting.  In all my experience, I do not remember a case in which a gift has been developed so rapidly.  I don’t want to give the impression—­ah that there is no room for improvement, but the thing was very well done, for an undergraduate.  I must confess I never should have suspected it in Peters, and it’s most interesting what you say about his cleverness in conversation.”  He twirled the head of his stick, apparently lost in reflection.  “I may be wrong,” he went on presently, “I have an idea it is you—­” I must literally have jumped away from him.  He paused a moment, without apparently noticing my panic, “that it is you who have influenced Peters.”

“Sir?”

“I am wrong, then.  Or is this merely commendable modesty on your part?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Then my hypothesis falls to the ground.  I had greatly hoped,” he added meaningly, “that you might be able to throw some light on this mystery.”

I was dumb.

“Paret,” he asked, “have you time to come over to my rooms for a few minutes this evening?”

“Certainly, sir.”

He gave me his number in Brattle Street....