Toby seated himself at the table, rested his chin in his hands and, with the twenty-five cent piece before him, tried to think what it all meant. The quarter had been in the box, the box had mysteriously disappeared and now the quarter had turned up again. Logic told him that the person who had sent him the quarter had taken the box, but that, of course, meant theft, and, for all his dislike of Frank Lamson, he couldn’t believe him a thief. Frank might be overbearing and self-important and something of a snob, and possess numerous other faults that Toby couldn’t think of just at the moment, but dishonesty was another matter. Besides, Frank’s folks were well-to-do, if not actually wealthy, and Frank had plenty of spending money—even if he didn’t pay all his bills promptly.

Another circumstance against the logical theory was that Frank hadn’t known of the existence of that six dollars and a quarter, much less, where it was kept. But, for that matter, neither had any one else known of it, and yet beyond the shadow of a doubt some one had taken it. Hold on, though! Perhaps some one had known of it! He had gone to the bureau when Tommy Lingard was in the room, and, although he hadn’t taken the box from the drawer, Tommy might easily have guessed the existence of it. That put a new phase on the matter, and Toby frowned harder than ever. Granting that Tommy had known of the money being there, it would have been an easy thing for him to have taken it. No fellow ever locked his door at Yardley, whether he was in or out, and young Lingard might have walked into Number 22 at any time during Toby’s absence. So might any one else. Frank Lamson, for instance. Somehow it seemed quite as impossible to connect Tommy Lingard with the theft of the money as it was to suspect Frank of it, though not for the same reason. Toby believed that Frank was honest. He didn’t have the same conviction regarding Tommy Lingard, but Tommy was such a shy, ingenuous youngster that one couldn’t imagine him having the courage to either plan a burglary or, having planned it, carry it out. Suspecting Tommy of robbery was like suspecting a canary of murder! Still—

Toby sat back suddenly and thrust his hands into his pockets, staring at a crack in the plaster with half-closed eyes. Last night he had found Frank coming along the corridor. Because Stillwell’s door had been ajar Toby had presumed that Frank had come from that room. But he might just as well have come from 22! And Frank had himself recalled the debt and offered to pay it on the morrow, just as though—as though he had suddenly come into funds! Toby wished that he knew whether Frank had really been to see Stillwell. If he hadn’t—

After a moment he arose resolutely and crossed the corridor to Number 23. Stillwell was at home, and, although he had his books spread before him on the table, he was concerned with a quite different task than studying. He had three hockey sticks across his knees and was binding electric tape around the blade of one of them. He looked mildly surprised at Toby’s entrance, but was cordial enough.

“I’m patching up some old sticks,” he explained. “They do well enough for practice. Sit down, Tucker. What’s on your mind?”

“I can’t stay, thanks,” answered the visitor. “I want to ask you a question, Stillwell. You may think it’s funny, and you needn’t answer it if you don’t want to. Anyway, I’d rather you didn’t tell any one I’d asked it.”

“Hello! What’s the mystery? Fire away, Tucker. I’ll be as silent as the grave. Only, if it’s anything incriminating—”

“Did Frank Lamson visit you last night?”

“Huh? Frank Lamson?” Stillwell looked at Toby in a puzzled way and shook his head slowly. “Not last night, Tucker. Lamson hasn’t been here this term as far as I know. Unless, of course, he came when I was out. But he couldn’t have done that last night because I was here all the evening.”

“You’re—you’re sure?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Tucker! Of course I’m sure. What’s the row, anyway?”

“It’s nothing of any importance,” said Toby. “Much obliged.”

“You’re welcome,” laughed the other, “but I’ll be lying awake half the night trying to solve the mystery. You really oughtn’t to spring anything like that, Tucker, unless you can come across with the answer!”

“I’m sorry,” replied Toby apologetically. “I’d explain it if I could, but I really can’t, Stillwell.”

“All right, my boy. Don’t let it bother you. If Lamson committed the foul deed, I hope the hounds of Justice get him.”

“W-what foul deed?” stammered Toby in surprise.

Stillwell laughed again. “Don’t ask me! I’m only guessing.”

“Oh!” Toby’s ejaculation expressed relief. He smiled. “You’ve been reading dime novels, I guess. Good-night, and thanks.”

Outside the door the smile vanished. Of course, this new evidence was only circumstantial, but it certainly supported the original theory. What puzzled Toby chiefly, though, was why Frank should steal—that is, take the money. If Frank needed money he could probably get it any time by writing home for it. There was, Toby decided as he closed his door behind him, just one explanation, which was that Frank had done it out of pure meanness! But that wasn’t a very satisfactory explanation, after all. Further reflection was interrupted by Tommy Lingard, who came for his clothes. While Toby was taking them from the hangers he studied the younger boy intently. Tommy Lingard was thirteen, a pink-and-white youngster with light brown hair and a pair of big dark blue eyes. He was a handsome youth, in spite of a very turned-up nose, and had a rather engaging way of coloring shyly when spoken to. No, thought Toby, this picture of innocence could never have stolen the money. Nevertheless Toby remarked carelessly as he folded the clothes on the end of the table:

“Sorry I was out when you came before, Lingard.”

The other boy reddened, but his eyes only grew rounder in surprise. “I—I didn’t come before, Tucker,” he said. “I thought they wouldn’t be ready until to-night.”

“Oh, I sort of thought you did,” replied Toby. “Here you are, then.”

“Th-thanks. How m-much is it, please?” stammered Lingard.

“A dollar and twenty. I won’t charge for pressing the extra trousers, Lingard. They didn’t need much.”

Tommy Lingard fished in his trousers pocket and drew out two folded bills and some change. One of the bills was of two-dollar denomination and the other of one. Lingard handed the latter to Toby and selected two dimes from amongst the coins. “That’s right, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Y-yes,” replied Toby. He was looking curiously at the dollar bill and apparently didn’t see the change that Lingard was holding out to him. “Yes, that’s right,” he went on. “Much obliged.”

“Here’s the twenty cents,” said the other.

“Oh, yes, thanks.” Toby accepted it. Then his gaze went back to the bill. Lingard walked toward the door.

“G-good-night,” he said.

“Good-night, Lingard.” Then, as the door was shutting behind the youngster, Toby called. “I say, Lingard, just a moment, please!”

“Yes?” Lingard’s voice sounded faint.

“Er—you don’t happen to know where you got this, do you?” asked Toby, holding the bill out. Lingard retraced his steps slowly and looked at it. There was a full moment of silence. Then:

“N-no, I don’t,” Lingard said slowly. “You see, I—” He stopped. “Why, of course I do!” he exclaimed triumphantly then. “I’d forgotten. Frank Lamson gave it to me this morning. I owed him a dollar and he asked me for it and I gave him a two-dollar bill. Is—isn’t it all right?”

“Oh, yes, I—I just wondered. It’s been torn, you see, and mended with a strip of court-plaster. It struck me that the court-plaster was a—a funny thing to patch a bill with. Maybe Frank did it, eh?”

“He might have. I—I guess it’s just as good, isn’t it?”

“Oh, certainly. You’re sure he gave it to you, eh?”

“Yes, I remember quite well now,” replied Lingard promptly. “I borrowed a dollar of him last term to pay for having my trunk mended, and I forgot all about it until this morning—”

“You and Frank are friends, then?”

“Oh, yes. We live in the same street in New York, you know. Sometimes he borrows from me—when I have it.” Lingard paused. Then: “If you don’t mind, Tucker, I’d rather you didn’t mention it to any one. I guess he wouldn’t want it known.”

“Why not?”

“Why—why, you see, other fellows might want to borrow from him. I—I’d rather you didn’t, please.”

“All right, Lingard. Good-night.”

When the visitor’s footsteps had died away on the stairs Toby sat himself down at the table again, spread the dollar bill before him and then from the table drawer produced a little case containing three sheets of court-plaster. One was pink, one white and one black. The pink was whole, the black had been reduced to about half its original size and the white had had a strip about a quarter of an inch wide cut from its lower edge. Toby looked intently from that oblong of white sticking-plaster to the bill. Then he tore a piece of paper from a scratch-pad and found a pencil. Untying the little knot of silk that held the court-plaster book together, he extracted the pink sheet and laid it on the piece of paper and with the pencil carefully traced the outline of it. When that was done he laid the sheet of white plaster in place of the pink, and fitting it to the top and sides of the outline, passed his pencil across the bottom edge. After that he took his scissors and painstakingly cut out the quarter-inch strip remaining between the two bottom marks. As he had expected, the little piece of paper exactly fitted the strip of white court-plaster pasted over the edges of the tear in the dollar bill. There was no possibility of doubt. The two tallied to the hundredth part of an inch.

Toby tied up the court-plaster book again and restored it, with the scissors, to the table drawer. Then, actuated by what motive he scarcely knew, he slipped the bill and the telltale strip of yellow paper into an envelope and placed that in the drawer too. And after that he laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back and frowned intently at the flickering gas-jet. That dollar bill had come into his possession just after his return from vacation. Who had paid it to him he couldn’t recall now. But he remembered perfectly discovering the tear in it and how, fearing it might increase if not mended, he had hit on the, to him, clever idea of patching it with a strip of court-plaster. It was, he reflected, rather odd that the only two pieces of money in the little box which he could have identified should both have come back to him! He no longer doubted that Frank Lamson had taken the little box and its contents from his bureau drawer, although he could not for the life of him find a satisfactory motive for the theft. Unless, and after all that was the most plausible theory, Frank had been pressed for money and Arnold had mentioned to him that Toby had a fund stowed away to buy hockey things. Wanting a better explanation, that must do, Toby told himself.

The next question was what was to be done about it. Toby’s proof, while positive to him, might not seem so to others. If he accused Frank and demanded the restitution of the stolen money Frank would, probably, deny emphatically and indignantly. It would be his word against Frank’s, and Frank was fairly well-liked and popular. But then he wouldn’t make it public, in any case, and a popular verdict had nothing to do with the affair. What he wanted was only the restoration of his six dollars and a quarter and if Frank refused to give it back to him the matter would have to rest right there. Toby had no notion of making the affair known. But, he thought vindictively, whether Frank was willing to restore the money to him or wasn’t, he would have the satisfaction of telling Frank what he thought of him! To be able to tell Frank Lamson to his face that he was a thief was almost worth the loss of the money! He planned and replanned what he would say. Even if he didn’t intend to make the matter public there’d be no harm in threatening Frank with it. He could scare him, at least. Frank, of course, would bluster and try to laugh at him, but for once that sort of thing wouldn’t work. Toby had the upper hand.

There was no studying done in Number 22 Whitson that evening. Nor was Toby disturbed again by visitors. He quite forgot his wish that Arnold would look him up. He forgot Arnold too. His mind was very busy planning how to wreak vengeance on Frank Lamson. He had not realized before to-night how thoroughly he hated that youth!