Tom stared in wide-eyed amazement for a moment. "You—you mean to say you think I did it!" he gasped finally.
Steve shrugged his shoulders.
"But—but you were here when I came back from downstairs, Steve! You saw that I didn't have it!"
"I didn't see anything of the sort. I didn't notice whether you had anything in your hands when you came in. Why should I? You might have slipped it under your coat. There's no use trying that game, Tom."
"Then why—why did you tell 'Horace' you took the book yourself if you knew you didn't?"
"Because one of us must have, you idiot."
"Oh, I see," answered Tom thoughtfully. "You wanted to keep me out of it, eh? Look here, Steve, what would I want with Upton's composition? My own was written two days before."
Steve shrugged his shoulders again impatiently. "That puzzled me. I didn't know. You did say afterwards, though, that your own comp. was pretty rotten. I didn't know but what——"
"You have a fine opinion of me, haven't you?" asked Tom bitterly. "You've known me ever since we were kids at kindergarten and you think that of me! Thanks, Steve!"
"Well, what——"