“Wait,” went on the Dean coldly. “I will explain. It is not altogether circumstantial evidence on which I am accusing you. The information came to me—anonymously I regret to say—that you had some red paint in your closet. The spoiling of the valuable manuscripts was such an offence that I decided to forego, for once, my objection to acting on anonymous information. I did ignore one letter that accused you——”
“Accused me!” burst out Joe, remembering the incident in chapel.
“Yes. But wait, I am not finished. I had your room examined in your absence, and we found—this.” He held up a pot of red paint.
“I had the paint on the steps analyzed,” went on the Dean. “It is of exactly the same chemical mixture as this. Moreover we found where this paint was purchased, and the dealer says he sold it to a student, but he will not run the risk of identifying him. But I deem this evidence enough to bar you from athletics, though I will not expel or punish you.”
Barred from athletics! To Joe, with the baseball season approaching the championship crisis, that was worse than being expelled.
“I—I never did it!” he cried.
“Do you know who did, if you did not?” asked the Dean.
Like a flash it came to Joe. He could not tell. He could not utter his suspicions, though he was sure in his own heart that Weston was the guilty one—the twice guilty one, for Joe was sure his enemy had put the paint in the closet to direct suspicion to him.
“Well?” asked the Dean, coldly.
“I—I have nothing to say,” faltered Joe.