“Now,” said Roy, “will you permit me to ask a few questions, to clear up some obscure points in my mind?”
“Certainly; anything,” said Andrew, with alacrity.
“How did that wretched Stockley come to wear your blue sweater? He tells me he did, and, besides, I saw him get down below that grating that night and I thought it was you.”
“Thought it was me,” said Garrett in the greatest amazement. “You thought it was I, and all this time you thought I was the thief, and yet stood all I said against you, and never said a word! Oh, Roy! No wonder on that Sunday afternoon you insisted on my clearing you,”
Andrew Garrett appeared to be fairly overcome by his cousin's generosity.
“Why, oh, why didn't I know all this before? How differently I would have acted. Believe me, it is only this very day I learned that the thief wore my sweater that night. Before going to bed on the night of the play I hung my sweater on a peg in the study-hall. The next morning I saw that it had been used by some one, for there were dirt stains on it and some rust marks from contact with rusty iron. I determined not to wear it after that. I had no idea the thief had used it, though.”
“Thanks,” said Roy. “Now one more question, Andrew.”
“Fire away.”
“This morning Stockley said something about a letter which you knew something of—one in some way connected with me. Can you tell me anything about it?”
Now it so happened that the affair of the letter