It could not be a coincidence. In the present condition of affairs, this mysterious note could refer only to one thing–the missing slips of the algebra test.
Fred Rushton! He, of all boys! Why, he would almost have been ready to stake his life on the lad’s honesty. He was so frank, so square, so “white.” The professor had grown to have the warmest kind of a liking for him. In study and in sport, he had stood in the first rank, and so far there had not been the slightest stain on his record.
No, it could not be possible that he had done this dastardly thing. He was almost tempted to tear the letter up.
And yet–and yet—
He must make sure.
He went to the office of Doctor Rally. From there, after a short conference, he went in search of Fred.
“Would you mind letting me take a look at your locker, Rushton?” he asked carelessly.
“Why, certainly not,” answered Fred promptly, but wonderingly.
They went to the dormitory which at that hour was deserted.
“Here you are, Professor,” he said, opening the locker.