“I don’t think I am doing anything of the sort, Merriwell,” said Chetwind. “You need say nothing about my own action. I realize fully how dishonorable it was, and I was sorry the moment I had agreed to do it. But I don’t see how it would help you for me to break my promise of secrecy to the man who conducted the negotiations between Phillips and myself. You have evidence that Phillips received the letter, and evidence, too, to back mine, that it actually contained a hundred dollars.
“If Phillips can explain that away, or can show that there is any reason for me to break my promise, I will do so, rather than permit any injustice to be done. But I don’t think it’s possible for that to happen. It looks like a clear case to me—and, in a way, I’m glad it’s come out. It will ease my mind to know that others know of my own dirty work. I’ll never engage in anything of the sort again, I can assure you.”
“Repentance is a good thing,” said Dick, “but it’s better still to keep straight. Then you won’t have anything to repent of afterward. I think you come out of this pretty badly. This man you are shielding is obviously a shady character, and, as such, not worthy of being shielded. You’ve done a mighty wrong thing. I think you ought to do all you can to set it right, instead of suddenly getting conscientious about your promise to your fellow conspirator.”
“That’s pretty strong language, Merriwell,” said Chetwind, flushing. “It isn’t going to make me any the more likely to do what you want, I can tell you. It’s up to Phillips to prove that there’s been some mistake here. If he can do that, I’ll help him, even to the extent of giving away the man who approached me. Until I see some reason to do so, however, I’ll keep my promise. My word has always been good, and it is good now.”
“You’ve got a curious conscience,” said Dick angrily. “It seems to work just about when and how you want it to. Good day.”
He could not trust himself to stay there any longer. Convinced, as he was, that Jim was innocent, it was hard for him, at first, to realize that others, who did not know the sophomore pitcher as well as he, would be much more likely, on the evidence so far produced, to think him guilty.
From Chetwind’s office, Dick made his way to Jim’s room. To him, first explaining that he was sure that he was innocent, despite the appearance of the case, he told the whole story, beginning with Bowen’s visit.
“I never even heard of this man, Chetwind,” exclaimed Jim angrily. “I certainly received no letter from him, registered or otherwise. The only registered letter—hold on, I’d forgotten.”
Jim had suddenly remembered the curious episode of which he had spoken to Bill Brady, which had never entered his mind since their drive out to the country club the previous day. Breathlessly, he told Dick of the second registered letter he had fancied was there, but which, when he came to look for it, had vanished.
“Of course, I couldn’t be sure,” said the coach, deep concern in his voice now, “but I certainly was obliged to think that that receipt was signed by you. The first explanation that came to me was that there had been no money in the letter, and that Chetwind was lying. The second was that the money had been some he owed you, and that he was still lying. Where is the letter, if you signed for it?”