“I see. Can you find that address and will you allow me to go to Ashland and talk to this man Mulford?”
For a brief instant the colonel studied Don’s earnest face and then he nodded shortly. “Yes, I can do all of that,” he said. “You will want to go on a Saturday afternoon, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir. You have faith in my idea, colonel?”
“Not as much faith in your idea as I have in you,” returned the colonel. “I know what you are capable of. I too have never believed Long guilty, and I’d like to see him cleared.”
“Thank you,” said Don, as he left the room. “I’ll go next Saturday, Colonel Morrell.”
Nothing more was said on the subject until the following Saturday morning, at which time the colonel gave Don a slip of paper with the name of a street in Ashland on it. While the other cadets were out on the field waiting for a football game to begin Don left the school and boarded a train for Ashland.
“I don’t know that this isn’t a wild goose chase for fair,” he reflected, as the swift train bore him across the country. “But I’m willing to make an attempt to find out what happened to that cup.”
It was late in the afternoon when he reached the manufacturing city, and after some inquiries he located the street on which the former janitor had lived. Don finally found the house, a narrow affair of red brick, sandwiched in between high rows on either side. He rang the bell and at last it was answered by a tall, thin girl.
“Does Mr. Mulford live here?” Don asked, raising his hat. He was not dressed in his uniform, as that would have attracted too much attention, but was clad in a plain everyday dress suit.
“Yes, he does,” was the gratifying answer. That was all the girl said, and she seemed to be waiting for something else.