“I didn’t intend to steal the letter. I didn’t notice it was Wendell’s till Ridley had gone away. I didn’t open it. I saw it was from the baseball League, so I tossed it on the box behind the door where Wendell usually puts his books.”
On hearing this I immediately looked behind the door, but found nothing. If the letter had been thrown there it had been swept away during the week.
“It is of little importance whether you opened it or not,” said Ray coldly. “The result is just the same in either case. You knew the contents, and you purposely prevented my getting it.”
Howard was about to say something more, but suddenly concluded to accept my advice and keep silent. His lame explanation had not helped matters at all, so, turning hastily, he walked away into the darkness of the campus, while Ray and I started up stairs.
“Well, if you ever had any doubts about your relations to Howard they should be removed now,” I said. “You have made an enemy of him for once and all.”
“Nothing more than he has been in the past, I imagine,” answered Ray. “Only he is open about the matter now. And to think that all this started with a few games of tennis—at least I suppose so, for Howard was friendly enough to me previous to that.”
We reached Ray’s door as his last words were spoken. This recalled to us the business we had in view for the evening, and Ray looked at his watch.
“Why doesn’t Tony turn up?” he asked.
“I think he will be here in a few minutes,” I answered. “I saw him shortly before I met you and he said he would be on hand promptly.”
We had scarcely seated ourselves when Tony entered, whistling a popular tune with all the strength and fervor, and about as much expression as a fog horn. The whistle stopped short when Tony saw our faces, and judged correctly from our expressions that something unusual had happened. I described in a few words the scene that had taken place down stairs.