“It’s nothing of any importance,” said Toby. “Much obliged.”
“You’re welcome,” laughed the other, “but I’ll be lying awake half the night trying to solve the mystery. You really oughtn’t to spring anything like that, Tucker, unless you can come across with the answer!”
“I’m sorry,” replied Toby apologetically. “I’d explain it if I could, but I really can’t, Stillwell.”
“All right, my boy. Don’t let it bother you. If Lamson committed the foul deed, I hope the hounds of Justice get him.”
“W-what foul deed?” stammered Toby in surprise.
Stillwell laughed again. “Don’t ask me! I’m only guessing.”
“Oh!” Toby’s ejaculation expressed relief. He smiled. “You’ve been reading dime novels, I guess. Good-night, and thanks.”
Outside the door the smile vanished. Of course, this new evidence was only circumstantial, but it certainly supported the original theory. What puzzled Toby chiefly, though, was why Frank should steal—that is, take the money. If Frank needed money he could probably get it any time by writing home for it. There was, Toby decided as he closed his door behind him, just one explanation, which was that Frank had done it out of pure meanness! But that wasn’t a very satisfactory explanation, after all. Further reflection was interrupted by Tommy Lingard, who came for his clothes. While Toby was taking them from the hangers he studied the younger boy intently. Tommy Lingard was thirteen, a pink-and-white youngster with light brown hair and a pair of big dark blue eyes. He was a handsome youth, in spite of a very turned-up nose, and had a rather engaging way of coloring shyly when spoken to. No, thought Toby, this picture of innocence could never have stolen the money. Nevertheless Toby remarked carelessly as he folded the clothes on the end of the table:
“Sorry I was out when you came before, Lingard.”
The other boy reddened, but his eyes only grew rounder in surprise. “I—I didn’t come before, Tucker,” he said. “I thought they wouldn’t be ready until to-night.”