Another circumstance against the logical theory was that Frank hadn’t known of the existence of that six dollars and a quarter, much less, where it was kept. But, for that matter, neither had any one else known of it, and yet beyond the shadow of a doubt some one had taken it. Hold on, though! Perhaps some one had known of it! He had gone to the bureau when Tommy Lingard was in the room, and, although he hadn’t taken the box from the drawer, Tommy might easily have guessed the existence of it. That put a new phase on the matter, and Toby frowned harder than ever. Granting that Tommy had known of the money being there, it would have been an easy thing for him to have taken it. No fellow ever locked his door at Yardley, whether he was in or out, and young Lingard might have walked into Number 22 at any time during Toby’s absence. So might any one else. Frank Lamson, for instance. Somehow it seemed quite as impossible to connect Tommy Lingard with the theft of the money as it was to suspect Frank of it, though not for the same reason. Toby believed that Frank was honest. He didn’t have the same conviction regarding Tommy Lingard, but Tommy was such a shy, ingenuous youngster that one couldn’t imagine him having the courage to either plan a burglary or, having planned it, carry it out. Suspecting Tommy of robbery was like suspecting a canary of murder! Still—
Toby sat back suddenly and thrust his hands into his pockets, staring at a crack in the plaster with half-closed eyes. Last night he had found Frank coming along the corridor. Because Stillwell’s door had been ajar Toby had presumed that Frank had come from that room. But he might just as well have come from 22! And Frank had himself recalled the debt and offered to pay it on the morrow, just as though—as though he had suddenly come into funds! Toby wished that he knew whether Frank had really been to see Stillwell. If he hadn’t—
After a moment he arose resolutely and crossed the corridor to Number 23. Stillwell was at home, and, although he had his books spread before him on the table, he was concerned with a quite different task than studying. He had three hockey sticks across his knees and was binding electric tape around the blade of one of them. He looked mildly surprised at Toby’s entrance, but was cordial enough.
“I’m patching up some old sticks,” he explained. “They do well enough for practice. Sit down, Tucker. What’s on your mind?”
“I can’t stay, thanks,” answered the visitor. “I want to ask you a question, Stillwell. You may think it’s funny, and you needn’t answer it if you don’t want to. Anyway, I’d rather you didn’t tell any one I’d asked it.”
“Hello! What’s the mystery? Fire away, Tucker. I’ll be as silent as the grave. Only, if it’s anything incriminating—”
“Did Frank Lamson visit you last night?”
“Huh? Frank Lamson?” Stillwell looked at Toby in a puzzled way and shook his head slowly. “Not last night, Tucker. Lamson hasn’t been here this term as far as I know. Unless, of course, he came when I was out. But he couldn’t have done that last night because I was here all the evening.”
“You’re—you’re sure?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Tucker! Of course I’m sure. What’s the row, anyway?”