“I deny your right to ask me insulting questions of this sort,” he said. “You’re universal coach here, Mr. Merriwell, and there’s no question of your authority in athletic matters. But I hadn’t heard that you have been appointed censor of the whole college. I’m going away. I refuse to stay and listen to such nonsense as you have been talking.”
He got up, but Dick Merriwell’s hand, strong as a steel chain, fell on his shoulder.
“Sit down, Foote,” he said. “I know you’re lying—and in a minute I’ll prove it. I’ve got a witness you can’t refute.”
“You mean Parker?” cried Foote furiously. “My word is as good as his.”
“You gave yourself away there, Foote,” said Dick. Had he not been so worried over Jim, he could almost have laughed. “No, it’s not Parker. The only thing he told us was that you were a ventriloquist. You’ll see the witness I mean in a minute. He’s of your own making.”
They had not long to wait until Brady returned with Detective Jones, of the New Haven police department. Jones carried a little bundle of photographs.
Dick Merriwell handed him the bread that Foote had been playing with.
“See if these fit, Jones,” he said, and the detective at once began a close comparison of the photographs he had brought and the bread, which contained the record of Foote’s nervous fingers. He produced a microscope and with it examined the piece of bread.
“These prints on the bread and the prints we found on those papers and on the other articles in Dwight Hall were made by the same person, Mr. Merriwell,” he presently announced.
“There’s my witness, Foote,” said Dick sternly. “There can be no going back of that evidence. It proves that you were concerned in the other plots. And I don’t need to tell you, what you already know, that when that car is found, there will be the same sort of evidence to prove that it was you who locked the door.”