“I’ve come to ask your advice about something.” Hawthorne tried to be brisk and cheerful but in truth he found the little room oppressive.

Evings’s hands were folded before him on a green blotter. His desk was empty and there was no sign of what he’d been doing before Hawthorne had knocked. Maybe he had slipped something into a drawer. The thought made Hawthorne feel slightly ashamed; there was nothing to say that Evings wasn’t pursuing his duties to the best of his abilities. Evings wore a misshapen blue cardigan with leather patches at the elbows. The room was much too warm. A gentle hissing came from a radiator under the bookshelf.

“Let’s sit by the fireplace, where it’s more comfortable,” said Evings, getting to his feet. “I could light a fire if you’d like.”

“It seems quite warm enough,” said Hawthorne.

“Ah, I’m always cold. I must have gotten it from my mother.”

But Hawthorne was no longer paying attention. He was staring at the oil portrait hanging over the fireplace. It showed a cheerless white-haired man in a high collar and a thin white beard. His expression was severe, almost angry. With amazement, Hawthorne realized it was the same man he had seen staring down at him from a third-floor window of Adams Hall late Friday night. “Who’s that?” he asked Evings.

“That’s Ambrose Stark.” Evings eyed Hawthorne with concern. “He was headmaster in the nineteenth century—oh, for about forty years. Are you all right?”

Hawthorne was astonished by the painting, and he couldn’t take his eyes from it. After a moment, he asked, “He’s the one they named the hall after?”

“That’s right, and Stark Chapel. He died in the early 1890s. He’s quite a figure here at Bishop’s Hill. The spirit of the place, as it were.”

“What do you mean, ‘spirit’?”

“The fine old goals and traditions that we like to praise in our recruitment literature. Is anything wrong?”

Hawthorne made himself turn away. “He looked familiar, that’s all.”

“There are several other portraits here at the school. Perhaps you saw one.”

“Very likely.” Hawthorne tried to recall the figure he had seen. Had it moved or made any sign? Was it possible that someone had held up a similar portrait at the third-floor window? The alternatives were too absurd to consider. Evings was continuing to watch him warily. Hawthorne forced a smile and glanced around the office.

In another moment they were settled in the two armchairs beneath the portrait. Hawthorne had nearly regained his composure, though his mind was full of questions. Still, he had to turn the conversation away from Ambrose Stark and to the reason for his visit. Evings displayed a stiffness that Hawthorne couldn’t explain, as if he were shy or had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“I wondered if you had any thoughts on the meeting yesterday?” asked Hawthorne.

Evings looked mildly perplexed, as if he had already forgotten the meeting. “Seems the wisest approach—get matters out in the open. Of course, it would be a pity if it became no more than gossip. I’ve always been an enemy of gossip—feelings get hurt, people take dislikes to one another. Nobody would benefit, neither the students nor the faculty. In fact, it might be fair to say that gossip would be no improvement on silence. No, no, I’d hate to see it happen.”

“As would I,” said Hawthorne, somewhat tonelessly, “which is why I feel we could benefit from your psychological expertise.”

Evings seemed both flattered and discouraged by the description. “I try to do what I can.”

They discussed the meetings and what Evings might do. For instance, he might give the faculty some guidance on dealing with certain of the students who seemed especially troubled. Hawthorne mentioned several names but Evings didn’t recognize them. The more Hawthorne said, the more uncertain Evings became. He agreed, however, to read the students’ files and talk to Hawthorne about what might be done.

As Hawthorne stood up to leave, he thought of something else. “The other night I came on a cat hung from a branch of one of the pines near the playing fields. I gather it belonged to the housekeeper, Mrs. Grayson.”

“Dear me,” said Evings, “and who was responsible?”

“I’ve no idea, but I wanted to ask if anything like this ever occurred before or if any of the students might have had any trouble with . . .” Hawthorne let the sentence drift away. Evings was staring fixedly at his bookshelf to his right. Following his gaze, Hawthorne saw row after row of novels and tucked between them on the third shelf the bright yellow spine of a well-thumbed paperbound copy of the Study Guide to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders-IV. Hawthorne wondered if Evings meant to take down the guide, turn to the index, and look up “cat” or “hanged cat.” Then he realized the reason for Evings’s stiffness—the man was frightened.

Evings cleared his throat—a sound rather like a bleat—and coughed. “I’m afraid this catches me by surprise. Hanged cat, you say? Absolutely nothing like that has happened here before, at least to my knowledge. Though it could have happened, I suppose, without my knowing about it. Now why should someone hang a cat? Of course, a few students have had difficulties with Mrs. Grayson, especially those she’s reported for smoking in their rooms. Perhaps the motivation lay with Mrs. Grayson and not the cat. At least five or six have spoken ill of her to me. I could give you their names, though two have graduated, or at least haven’t returned. But they might, of course, have returned to hang a cat, as strange as that may be. I’m sure there are stranger cases.”

Again Evings glanced toward the DSM study guide as if he wished to search its pages. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his cardigan and wiped his forehead.

“Are you all right?” asked Hawthorne quietly.

Evings gave Hawthorne a wide-eyed stare; he looked like someone who had tried to swallow something too big for his throat. Then he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. “I know I’m terrible at my job. Nobody knows it better than I. Years ago, I think, I actually had something to offer.” He rubbed his scalp and the pressure of his fingers made white marks on the pink flesh. “But now it gets worse and worse. The students who come here . . . I really have nothing to say to them. Of course it’s simple for me to sit and remain silent. And for some, that’s enough. But do you know that a few have sat there and laughed? I was afraid I’d burst into tears. I know I don’t have much more time at Bishop’s Hill. There’s nothing surprising about that. The moment I laid eyes on you I knew you’d find me out, but I hoped I’d at least have a few months. Then that meeting yesterday—I felt unable to say a word. Others kept looking at me—what an awful humiliation! Believe me, no one feels guiltier than I about taking the school’s money. I fully understand that you’d want me to resign.”

Hawthorne experienced a sinking feeling. “Really, I only meant to ask you about the hanged cat.”

“Well, I didn’t do it,” said Evings fussily, “that’s the one thing I am absolutely positive about. I have never in my entire life hanged a cat.” He laughed suddenly, a high barking noise. “Actually, I knew there would be changes. Can you deny that you’re planning to hire a new psychologist?”

“I’ve already announced that fact, but I’m not getting someone to replace you.”

“Yes, that’s how it begins, a little innocuous levering. The new person settles in and suddenly I disappear.”

“Has anyone told you that your position’s in jeopardy?” asked Hawthorne. He felt a trifle guilty about his question, since he had been considering replacing Evings even before he had entered the stuffy office. He guessed that the temperature in the room was nearly ninety and he felt a drop of sweat roll down his rib cage until it was blotted by his shirt.