“So they had an idea that, because I was angry, I might do some sneaky thing!” he snarled, his eyes flashing. “I wonder what they thought I’d do? Did they fancy I’d steal the football and suits? That little cub, Chatterton, said I was so mad there was no telling what I’d do! I’d like to wring his neck!”
The village stammerer might have been handled roughly had he been within reach of Don Scott at that moment.
“I’d like to know what cause any one has to think such things of me?” the doctor’s son muttered, walking up and down the room with quick, nervous strides. “Even if I have a temper, I’ve never played the sneak, and no one has a right to even suspect that I’ll begin now!”
For a time these outraged thoughts prevented his mind from reverting again to the encounter with the unknown, but at length he came back to that, and once more fell to wondering over the identity of his mysterious antagonist. Then he thought of the captured knife, being seized by a sudden hope that it might reveal to him what he wished to know, or, at least, serve as a clew.
In a moment the knife was in his hand. It was covered with blood, and this Don proceeded to wash away, wiping the knife dry with a handkerchief.
“By Jupiter! it’s a beauty!” he exclaimed, regarding it with admiration. “New, pearl-handled, four-bladed; don’t look as if it’d be carried for a deadly weapon by a ruffian; looks more like a gentleman’s knife. Hello! Here are the initials of the owner engraved on the plate in the handle. What are they? ‘R. G. R.’ Now, what do they stand for?”
He was silent for a moment, staring at the handsome knife that lay in his uninjured hand. Of a sudden, he panted:
“By my life, I have it! Those initials stand for Randolph Grant Renwood, and this knife belongs to Dolph Renwood!”
Then, seemingly bewildered by this startling discovery, he sat down and continued to stare at the tell-tale knife.