Wilmerding drew his breath with a whistling sound. For an instant he sat silent. Then he moved his hand unconsciously, and caught Pell’s arm in a grip which made the man wince.
“What day was that, Snow?” he breathed.
“The twenty-sixth of May,” was the quick response. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that date. It was about three in the afternoon. But what in thunder was it all about, Oggie? I never supposed it was anything but a joke. Can’t you put a fellow wise?”
The big man at his side did not answer. He was staring out across the diamond toward the bleachers, black with their crowds of restless fans. He saw nothing, heard nothing. He could not speak for the joy which filled his soul as a realization of the truth came to him at last.
He was not a thief!
For years he had been so absolutely convinced that it was he who had—unconsciously, perhaps, but still none the less certainly—stolen those things from Bob Ferris’ rooms, that Pell’s story struck him as almost incredible.
There could be no mistake, however. The details fitted too perfectly to admit of a coincidence. Lefty had been right, it was Elgin who was the thief, not he. And Elgin it was who had done a thing which would have been impossible in Wilmerding, waking or sleeping; he had deliberately stolen, and as deliberately planned to throw the blame upon an innocent man.
Sudden, furious anger flamed up within the Princeton man. He felt as if he must search out that contemptible coward and give him a little of what was coming to him. He half rose from the bench, his face livid; and then he realized that all around him a wild uproar had arisen. Men yelled and cheered themselves purple; they stamped and shouted and waved their hats.
Pell’s hand caught Wilmerding by the arm and dragged him down, but not before the angry man had caught a glimpse of the line of athletes in their immaculate uniforms, leaving the shadow of the distant bleachers and trotting briskly into the brilliant April sunshine on the field.