“Your anxiety for your friend—ah—does you honor, Merriwell. Yet I would point out that until Mr. Dobbs volunteered his—ah—information, Mr. Randall was not thought of in connection with the unfortunate matter.”
Poor Randall was miserable enough, and looked it. He could not doubt Frank’s sincerity in helping him, and his conscience smote him. He wondered whether Merry had drank that glass of water, but Frank gave no signs of being drugged.
Going over the facts once more, Merriwell was forced to admit that things looked black for Randall. If he should be arrested and brought before a jury, there was little doubt but that he would be convicted on circumstantial evidence. And yet it was incredible that he should have stolen the money!
One by one the searchers brought back word that there was no sign of Carson anywhere about the grounds, and on telephoning the hotel, Colonel Gunn found that he had not returned. Randall’s entire hopes of vindication rested upon his cousin.
“I’m sure the constable will be willing that Randall should remain here in your care, colonel,” suggested Merry. “Carson is sure to turn up at the game, and he can be brought over at once to clear Randall.”
“Good!” cried the colonel, the constable nodding assent. “And to express my—ah—belief and confidence in Mr. Randall, he shall sit in my box during the game!”
Randall tried to thank Merry with his eyes, as the bugles rang out for mess, but Frank departed with an uneasy feeling that something was certainly weighing on the Southerner’s mind. Could he be guilty by any chance?
CHAPTER XXXIV.
A MYSTERY.
There was no doubt that the Clippers were a drawing card.