The players had finished their game and were coming slowly toward the clubhouse, but Stovebridge’s eyes never left the vivid patch of close-cropped turf.
He was afraid to look up, afraid to meet the glance of the man beside him. He dreaded the sound of the other’s low, clear voice. Why was he asking these questions? Why, indeed, unless he suspected?
“You didn’t happen to run over the main road from Wilton this morning, I suppose?”
The guilty man could not suppress a slight start. It had come, then. Merriwell did suspect him. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and for a moment he was speechless. He moistened his dry lips.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “I came—by the river road.”
What was the matter with him? That did not sound like his voice. It was not the way an innocent man would have answered an unmistakable innuendo. If he did not pull himself together instantly he would be lost.
The next moment he turned on the Yale man.
“Why do you ask that?” he said almost fiercely. “What do you mean by such a question?”
His face was calm, though a little pale. His long lashes drooped purposely over the blue eyes to hide the fear which filled them.
Merriwell looked at him keenly.