Thus, then, began the amazing series of depredatory visitations that befell Talbot Cummings; or, rather, his study, for so long as he was on hand nothing befell. All one morning he remained uncomfortably concealed beneath the bed, thereby cutting four recitations and being obliged to invent an unconvincing attack of toothache. And while he lay there, inhaling dust, he heard Jonesie arrive gayly next door, remain for a half-hour of song and depart lightsomely. It was while he was describing that toothache to the Principal that vandalism again occurred. When he returned, far from happy, he found that, in spite of locked door and window, his near-Tiffany shade sat on the rug surmounted by “Travels in Arctic Lands” and the bronze ink-well, the latter, fortunately, empty. The silver-framed photograph lay on its face and the contents of the lower dresser drawer, or most of them, were lying about the floor. Cummings dropped into a chair, grabbed his neatly-arranged hair in both hands and raged.
Like most persons who appreciate a joke on another, Cummings hated ridicule when directed against himself. It was principally for this reason that for three days he kept the matter quiet. A lesser reason was that he didn’t like to believe that anyone was smarter than Talbot Cummings and that he thought he could eventually outwit the perpetrator of the dastardly deeds. His suspicions had long since returned irrevocably to Jonesie. He recalled the incident of the composition and Jonesie’s threats to get even. But there was no use charging that youth again with the crime until he had proof, and proof was not forthcoming. At first he suspected Jonesie of having a duplicate key to the corridor door, but reflection told him that all the duplicate keys in the world wouldn’t allow Jonesie or anyone else to enter the room and retire without disturbing the key that was on the inside or the chair that was under the knob. And after he had added a specially large and heavy bolt he was still more certain that the vandal did not come in that way. Neither did he enter by the window. He proved that by locking it and finding it still locked after the bed-clothes had transferred themselves to the window-seat. Nor was it possible that Jonesie came in by the communicating door, for there was the undisturbed bolt, a key-hole filled with sealing-wax and a piece of paper still reposing between door and frame, just where Cummings had craftily placed it. Cummings spent so much time trying to solve the mystery that studies suffered and he was spoken to harshly more than once. The thing even began to affect his appetite, and at last, when seven separate times he had found his study turned topsy-turvy, he offered an armistice.
“Come in!” called Jonesie.
Entered Cummings, smiling knowingly, and seated himself with a fine nonchalance. Jonesie, looking up from Latin, eyed him with disfavor.
“What you grinning about?” he demanded coldly.
Cummings winked and leered. “You win,” he announced cheerfully, and managed a deprecatory laugh. Jonesie frowned darkly.
“Win what?”
“You know. I don’t know how you do it—That is, I’m not certain, but I have an idea. Anyhow, it’s clever, Jonesie. You had me guessing at first, all right. But I guess we’re quits now, eh?”
“Would you mind giving me a hint? I’ve got Latin and math to get and there isn’t much time for conundrums, Cummings. If it’s one of the ‘What’s-the-difference-between’ kind, I never could guess those.”
“Oh, don’t keep it up. I tell you I give in, don’t I? What more do you want?”