If Dr. Leacraft expected to be received with much enthusiasm on his return that evening he was destined to disappointment. The boys cheered him on his arrival, it is true, and came about him with inquiries for his injured son and congratulations on his partial recovery; but there was a certain restraint in the manner of the majority which to his experienced eye and ear told that all things had not gone quite well.

And that it was something more than the by-gone offence of the expedition to Rice's was evident. Only one-half of the boys were implicated in that affair; they had already been punished by the restrictions which had been placed upon them, and were to be further disgraced by the public reprimand which he intended to give them on the dismissal of the school; and these culprits were probably dreading this or some other severe punishment which would be meted out to them by the report of their misconduct which would be sent home. But there was something here beyond all this; the boys were looking askance at one another, and as if there were some new revelation to be made.

Mr. Merton would have spared the doctor the recital of any further disturbance until the morning; but the principal, having observed all this, would not be put off; the time was short, and if the matter were a serious one which required investigation, he must have knowledge of it at once.

Serious, indeed, the doctor thought it when he heard the tale: the disappearance of a hundred-dollar note confided by one boy to another, and the question as to who was responsible for it.

But was it certain that this responsibility lay solely between these two boys?

This was an idea which now presented itself to the minds of the two gentlemen, as it had before this to the minds of the pupils. It had been started by Raymond Stewart, who had said:

"How do we know that some one else has not been meddling with that money? I do not see that it follows no one could touch it but Seabrooke or Percy."

"That would say that there was a thief among us," said another boy, indignantly.

"That's about it," answered Raymond.

The boys had looked from one to another almost in dismay. Whatever their faults and shortcomings—and some of these had been grave enough—such an idea, such an implication as this had never before presented itself to them—that there was a thief in their midst, that one of their number had been guilty of flagrant dishonesty, of an absolute theft, and that of a large sum.

"That's a nice thing for you to say," broke forth Malcolm Ainslie.
"Whom do you accuse?"

"I accuse no one," answered Raymond. "I only said such a thing might be."

But Percy and Seabrooke had both scouted the idea; no one, they both said, knew that the former had intrusted his money to Seabrooke; no one had been present at the time, and both declared that they had spoken of it to no one.

But the suspicion aroused by Raymond was not set at rest by this, and an uncomfortable atmosphere had reigned ever since, and, as has been seen, was remarked by Dr. Leacraft as soon as he returned home.

Thursday morning, and the closing day arrived, and there was a general feeling of shame and annoyance that such a cloud should be resting upon the school as its members separated even for a few days. It seemed now as if nothing could "come out," as the boys said, there was so little time for any investigation, for the pupils, none of whom lived at more than a few hours distance from Sylvandale, were to leave by the afternoon trains.

The morning lessons were to continue as usual, but those for the after part of the day were to be dispensed with.

The matron did the boys' packing, so that there were no especial calls upon their time before leaving.

"Henderson, are you ill?" asked Dr. Leacraft, coming into the junior class-room about eleven o'clock, and noticing that Charlie Henderson, the youngest boy in the school and a pattern scholar, was deathly pale, and supporting his head upon his hand. The boy was subject to frightful headaches, which for the time unfitted him for all study or recitation; and Seabrooke, who was hearing the lesson in progress, had excused him from taking any part in it. These headaches were of few hours duration; but the boy needed absolute rest and quiet to enable him to conquer them.

As he lifted his heavy, suffering eyes to the doctor's face,
Seabrooke answered for him.

"Yes, sir, he has one of his headaches, and is afraid he will not be able to go this afternoon. I have excused him from recitation, and was going to ask if he may go to his room. He is not fit to be here."

"Certainly. Go at once, my child," said the doctor, laying his hand kindly on the boy's throbbing head. "You must have a sleep, and ease this poor head before afternoon. You will feel better by train time."

Charlie rose with a murmured word of thanks, every step and movement adding a fresh pang to his pain, and went slowly from the room and up to the dormitory devoted to the younger boys.

But there seemed small prospect of quiet here. The matron and three housemaids were in the room, half a dozen trunks were standing here and there, bureau drawers and closets were standing open, and a general appearance of disorder attendant upon the packing for half-a-dozen boys reigned throughout the apartment.

Charlie gave a little groan of despair as he stood at the open door and looked in.

"Oh, Master Henderson, my dear!" ejaculated the matron, as she caught sight of the pale, suffering young face, "you've never gone and got one of your headaches to-day of all days. Such a hubbub as there is here. You can't come in, my dear; you'll never get rest for your poor head. Come to the other dormitory; we're all done there, and it's as quiet as a nunnery, and one can get to sleep, and sleep you must have if you are going home this afternoon. Come now; you have five hours to get rid of that good-for-nothing headache."

And the voluble but kind-hearted woman led the way to the dormitory of the older boys, where all was quiet and in order, and installed her patient on Percy Neville's bed, covered him, gave him the medicine prescribed for his relief, and having made him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, left him to the coveted rest and quiet in the half-darkened room.

The healing sleep was not long in coming, and for three hours or more Charlie lay motionless and lost to all around him, Mrs. Moffat coming once or twice to look in upon him, and depart with a satisfied nod of her head, confident that he would wake sufficiently restored to undertake the journey home at the appointed hour.

It was with a grave face that the doctor rose at the close of the morning lessons to dismiss his charge for the Easter holidays. His customary leave-taking was one simply of good-will and kind wishes for the enjoyment of his pupils, and for their return at the commencement of another term; but this time there was much to be said that was not so agreeable. To the younger boys he addressed only a few commendatory words, praising them for their fair progress and general good conduct, and wishing them a very pleasant holiday.

To those of the senior department he then turned with stern looks and tones, saying he had thought it but right to inform their parents and guardians of their misconduct during his absence. He did not intend to leave punishment entirely to them, however, but on the return of the boys to school, further restrictions would be placed upon their liberty, and many of their past privileges would be taken from them for the remainder of the school year. He spoke severely, not only of the want of principle shown by the culprits, but alluded also to the lack of feeling they had shown in so defying his express wishes and orders at a time of such distress and anxiety to himself, although he did not dwell much upon this. But to those among them who had any sense of honor left, there was an added shame when this was presented anew to them, and as Percy afterwards said, he did "feel uncommonly mean and sneaky."

He must speak of another and still more painful matter, the doctor continued. A matter so serious that he felt he must allude to it before they separated. A large sum of money was missing under very mysterious circumstances; he believed that there was no need to enter into particulars. He wished and was inclined to think that some forgetfulness and carelessness lay at the bottom of this. Here Seabrooke's hand, which lay upon his desk, clenched itself, and a dark scowl passed over his face, while Percy glanced over at him with suspicion and resentment written on every feature, and a battery of eyes turned in his direction, not one among them with friendly look for himself.

But the doctor said there might be even a worse interpretation put upon the disappearance of the money, an interpretation he was both to entertain, but which must occur to all, namely, that some one had succumbed to temptation, and had appropriated the missing sum, which one of their number had been so positive he left in a safe place. Was it possible that there was one among the circle who would do such a thing? If so, let him make confession and restitution before he left to-day, and although he could not be suffered to return to the school, he might at least be spared the shame of confronting his schoolmates after discovery. For he would leave no stone unturned, he said, emphatically, to unravel the mystery; and if nothing came to light before to-night, he should at once place the matter in competent hands for its solution.

A dead silence fell upon the boys as he concluded, and if they had been uneasy and inclined to look askance upon one another before, how was it with them now? So the higher powers shared the suspicions which, they scarcely knew how, had made themselves felt among them since yesterday morning.

What an uncomfortable puzzle it all was! and who was to read the answer to the riddle? Had Seabrooke lost the money? Had Percy been guilty of possessing himself of his own property by such unjustifiable means? Or was one of their number an actual thief?

In a few more words Dr. Leacraft then dismissed the school, and the boys were free for discussion of the matter among themselves.

It was easy for Seabrooke to see, as it had been from the first, in which direction the current of opinion tended, and not caring to talk further upon the subject, he withdrew to the shelter of his own alcove.

Charlie Henderson, in the solitary dormitory, lay quiet and undisturbed, until, having nearly slept off his headache, he woke with the delightful sense of relief and peace which comes after the cessation of severe pain. He lay still, however, feeling languid, and waiting till some one should come whom he could ask for the cup of strong coffee which was always needed to perfect his cure, and thinking happily of home and the pleasure he anticipated in the holidays just at hand.

At last Mrs. Moffat put her head into the room. "Ah, Master Henderson, my dear," she said, at once appreciating the change in the situation, "so you're better. That's a dear boy"—as though it were highly meritorious in Charlie to have allowed himself to feel better. "Well, now, you must have your cup of coffee to tone you up for your trip. You lie still, while I see about it. There's lots of time yet, and I'm not going to send you home faint and miserable to your mother, and have her say there's nobody at Sylvandale Academy to look after her head-ache-y boy."

And she was gone, while Charlie, nothing loth, obeyed orders and lay almost motionless.

Suddenly quick footsteps came along the hall, and the door of the room, which Mrs. Moffat had left ajar, was pushed open and a boy entered—one of the older boys—and Charlie knew that his presence here would be questioned, and that he must hasten to explain.

Who was it? There were boys and boys belonging to that dormitory, and Charlie felt that he would rather be found there by some than by others. It was for this reason that he had chosen the bed of the good-natured, easy-going Percy to rest upon; he would "raise no fuss," or make him feel himself an intruder.

It was Lewis Flagg. Certainly he was not the one by whom Charlie would choose to be faced, and seeing that he was not perceived, he hesitated whether he should speak and reveal his presence, or pretend to be still asleep and trust to silence and good fortune to remain undiscovered.

But before he had quite made up his mind which course to pursue the matter was decided for him, and he found that he had no need to betray himself.

Lewis was upon business which necessitated haste and secrecy; and knowing that all the other legitimate occupants of the dormitory were below stairs, he never gave a thought to the possibility that there might be some one else there, and believed himself quite alone. His hurried movements were very mysterious to the young spectator.

Lewis went to the alcove occupied by Seabrooke, where his trunk, like that of the other boys, stood packed and closed, but not locked or strapped lest there should be "some last things to put in." He stooped over the trunk, lifted the lid, and taking something from his pocket, thrust it down beneath the contents, hastily closed it again, and darted from the room. The whole performance took but a moment, but there was an unmistakable air of guilt and terror about Lewis which did not fail to make itself apparent even to the inexperienced eye of Charlie.

[Illustration: AN UNSUSPECTING WITNESS]

"I wonder what he was doing. He hates Seabrooke; so he wasn't giving him a pleasant surprise," said the little boy to himself. "He's a sneak, and I suspect he was doing something sneaky. I've a great mind to tell Seabrooke to look in his trunk before he locks it. Perhaps he has put in something to explode or do some harm to the things in Seabrook's trunk or to himself."

Charlie was a nervous child and rather imaginative, and was always conjuring up possibilities of disaster in his own mind. He did not make these public; he knew better than to do such a thing in a house full of schoolboys, but they existed all the same. He did not wish to "tell tales;" but he had not too much confidence in Lewis Flagg—it would be hard to find the boy in the school who had, especially among the younger ones—and he could not bear to think that he might have planned some scurvy trick on Seabrooke.

Charlie was a pattern scholar, a boy after Seabrooke's own heart, because of his sincere efforts to do right; and hence he had found favor in his eyes, and he had shown many little tokens of partiality toward the child which had won for him the younger boy's gratitude and affection.

He lay waiting for Mrs. Moffat and trying to make up his mind what he had better do, when Seabrooke himself entered the room and went directly to his alcove, in his turn unconscious of Charlie's presence.

He looked troubled and harassed, as he well might do, and sat down for a moment, leaning his head upon his hand, and seemingly in deep thought.

Should he tell him? Charlie asked himself.

Presently with a sigh and a despondent shake of the head, to which he would never have given vent had he known that any one was observing him, Seabrooke rose, and going to his trunk proceeded to lock it.

It was too much for Charlie.

"Seabrooke!" he said, in a low tone, and raising himself from his pillows.

Seabrooke looked up, startled at finding that he was not the sole occupant of the room.

"Charlie," he exclaimed, "what are you doing here?" Then with a flash of recollection, "Oh! I suppose they put you here to sleep off your headache."

"Yes," answered Charlie, "and—Seabrooke—"

"Well, what is it?" asked the other, as the boy hesitated.

"Won't you look in your trunk—carefully—before you lock it?" said
Charlie.

"Why?" asked Seabrooke, much surprised, and thinking for a moment that Charlie's headache must have produced something like delirium.

"Oh, because," said Charlie, thinking how he could best warn Seabrooke and yet not betray Flagg, "because—there's something in your trunk."

"Of course there is," said Seabrooke, "lots of things, I should say—pretty much all I possess is there."

And he wondered as he spoke if he should ever bring any of his possessions back there again, whether, with this cloud, this suspicion of a possible betrayal of his trust resting upon him, he should ever return to Sylvandale school.

"But—" stammered Charlie, "I mean—Seabrooke—somebody put something there. I—I saw him—but he did not see me here. He's playing you a trick, I know. Do look."

Seeing that the boy was quite himself and thoroughly in earnest,
Seabrooke turned to his trunk and began taking the clothes out,
Charlie sitting up and watching him anxiously, and wondering what
would be discovered.

"It's in the left-hand corner in front," he said; and then there was silence for a moment.

Seabrooke laid aside half-a-dozen articles, then suddenly started to his feet with an exclamation, holding in his hand a creased and crumpled envelope, which he hastily opened, and took from it—Percy's hundred-dollar note!

He turned deathly pale and for a moment stood gazing at it as if stupefied.

"What is it? Percy Neville's money?" asked Charlie, who, in common with every other boy in the school, knew the story of Percy's lost banknote.

"Yes," answered Seabrooke in a stern, cold tone, "did you say you saw some one put it there?"

"Yes," said Charlie, "but you must not ask me who it was, for I cannot tell."

"You must tell me," said Seabrooke, striding up to the bed, "you must tell me. Who was it?"

"I won't, I won't; I will not," said Charlie, firmly. "I told you because I thought you ought to know some one went to your trunk; but I won't tell who it was."

"Ah, I know," answered Seabrooke; "no need to look very far. It was Neville himself. Who would have believed it of him, weak, miserable coward that he is? He would have set some one to search my trunk, I suppose, that it might be found there and prove me a thief."

"Percy Neville! It was not Percy! Oh, no!" exclaimed Charlie; "you ought not to say it."

"Who then? Tell me at once," persisted Seabrooke, just as Mrs. Moffat returned with the coffee, to find her young patient flushed and distressed, with Seabrooke standing over him in rather a threatening manner.

"I won't," repeated Charlie, "but it wasn't Percy."

"Hi! what's the matter? what is this?" demanded Mrs. Moffat. "If Master Henderson's been breaking any rules, you'll please not nag him about it now, Mr. Seabrooke. You'll have him all worried into another headache, and he is not fairly over this one yet, and he'll not be fit for his journey home."

Seabrooke paid no more attention to her than if she had not spoken.

"Do you hear me, Henderson?" he asked. "I will know."

"I won't—" began Charlie again; but Mrs. Moffat interposed once more.

"Mr. Seabrooke," she said, actually pushing herself between the two boys, the tray with the coffee in her hand, "Mr. Seabrooke, Master Henderson is under my care so long as he is in here, and I will not have him worried in this way. Let him alone if you please."

Seabrooke was blind and deaf to all her interference.

"I will know," he repeated. "I will bring the doctor here if you do not tell. Who was it?"

Charlie's eyes turned involuntarily towards the corner of the room occupied by Lewis Flagg's bed and other belongings, and Seabrooke caught the look. Quick-sighted and quick-witted, he drew his own inferences and attacked the boy from another quarter.

"It was Flagg, then," he persisted.

The color flashed up over Charlie's pale face, but he only answered sharply:

"I tell you to let me alone. You're real mean, Seabrooke."

"So he is," said Mrs. Moffat, "and I wish the doctor would come. We'd see if he'd have this sick boy put about this way, Mr. Seabrooke. I tell you I have the care of him now, and I'll not have him plagued this way."

But Seabrooke was gone before she was half through with this speech, and poor Charlie was left to take his coffee in such peace as he might with the dread hanging over him of being reported as a tell-tale. Mrs. Moffat's sympathy and her almost abuse of Seabrooke did him little good; he was very sensitive to praise or blame, and could not bear the thought of incurring the ill-will of any one of the boys.