“Let him deny that it is his knife if he can!” challenged the dark-haired lad.
“I haven’t the least notion of denying it,” said Dolph, immediately. “It is my knife, lost last Saturday night.”
“Yes, lost in the struggle with me in the dressing-room, where I caught you just after you had finished your dirty work of cutting up the football and the suits. I left this suit of clothes I am wearing there Saturday afternoon, and I went up for it that night, after I was here in this room. I caught you there, and you fought like a fiend to escape without being recognized. When I had you down and was choking you into submission, you tried to stab me with the knife, and you did cut my shoulder a bit, but I got hold of your hand and took the knife from you. Here it is, and it is proof that you are the fellow I found in the dressing-room.”
Don seemed to fancy that he had fastened the deed on Renwood, and his air was one of satisfied triumph; but he was surprised to observe that Dolph showed neither confusion nor shame. Instead, the city youth laughed again, saying:
“That’s a very clever fairy story, Scott, but you can’t make anybody believe it.”
“Hardly,” agreed Mayfair. “It will not go down.”
“Not mum-much!” scoffed Chatterton.
“If you had not confessed being in the dressing-room Saturday night,” said Sterndale, regarding Don with mingled anger and aversion, “we had sufficient evidence to show you were there. We found this in the dressing-room.” He held up to view Don’s favorite red necktie.
“And this just outside the gate to the field,” put in Mayfair, displaying a blood-stained handkerchief. “It has your monogram on it, Scott.”
“Both necktie and handkerchief are mine,” declared Don, without hesitation. “The necktie was torn off in the struggle. I had the handkerchief wrapped about my fingers, but lost it on the way home.”