It is stating the case tamely to say Don was bewildered, for that does not at all express his state of mind. He was thunderstruck. Never till the moment of the surprising discovery had he in any way connected his desperate antagonist of the dressing-room with the lad whom he hated with all the intensity of his passionate nature, and even now it did not seem possible that the fellow who had fought him so furiously in the darkness of that place could have been Renwood.
“If it was he, what was he doing there?” was the question Don asked himself. “He must have been up to something crooked, else he would not have been so fierce to get away; but what it means is more than I can conceive.”
A long time the boy puzzled over the singular affair, without, however, in the least satisfying himself concerning it. The knife that had fallen into his possession in such a strange manner seemed to settle the identity of his antagonist, but it did not betray Renwood’s reason for secretly visiting the dressing-room under cover of darkness or reveal why he had fought like a wolf to escape without being recognized.
“Anyhow, he tried to stab me,” muttered Don. “Is it possible he went there to steal my clothes? Perhaps he did, and it may be that he recognized me, even though I didn’t recognize him. That may be why he fought so and tried to stab me.”
He was not satisfied with this explanation, and at last, tired of speculating concerning it, he went to bed. After what he had passed through, it was but natural that he should dream, nor was it strange that his dreams were of sanguine encounters with the lad he so disliked.
Don slept late the following morning, which was the Sabbath; but he was aroused at last by his aunt outside his door, who told him he would have to make haste in order to get ready for church.
Of course, his first waking thoughts were of the unpleasant events of the previous day and the startling adventure which had capped them all. As he dressed the tell-tale knife lay on a table before him, and his eyes often sought it, while his heart was filled with triumph because he had, he fancied, wrested from his enemy’s hand this proof of his identity.
Don gave his aunt no cause to complain about his appetite that morning, for he ate heartily; but there was a flush in his dark cheeks and his manner was strangely preoccupied, showing that his thoughts were wandering. However, he was thoughtful enough to keep his injured hand in his lap, so it did not attract attention.
The second bell was ringing when Don came down from his room to join his father and aunt, who were waiting for him to accompany them to church.
“Hello, Don!” exclaimed the doctor. “You have forgotten to put on your best coat. That one doesn’t match your suit.”