“But you signed it yourself, Lef, as plain as day!” declared Frank.
“What’s that? Think I’m a fool, do you? Sign nothing! The fellow who wrote that scribble was wise enough to make only his mark,” sneered Lef.
“Well, in this case his mark is as good as his name,” went on Frank.
Lef began to tremble. He realized that there was something terrible back of these words, so calmly spoken by the boy he had come to fear more than any one he had ever known.
“Tell me how?” he demanded, with one more futile attempt at bluster.
Frank pointed to the blur on the edge of the sheet, where a thumbmark was plainly visible in ink.
“That’s your signature, Lef! You never thought when by accident your thumb made that blur that you were signing your name here, but that’s just what you did. The proof lies in that little drawer where you made the impression of your left hand. Alike as two peas they are, Lef. That would convict you in any court. It stamps you as the low, mean cur that you are, who would try to ruin a companion’s reputation just to gratify his love of revenge!”
Lef stared at the small tray of moulding clay in which the plain impression of his hands could be seen.
“You—did—that as a trap!” he gasped.
“Well, just as you will. If it was a trap you fell into it neatly enough, and you’re caught now. The evidence is there, and if I showed it to Professor Parke I guess we wouldn’t be bothered with you at Columbia High much longer,” went on Frank, sternly.