u may search Richard's room," replied his mother,
quickly. "But you'll be wasting your time, for you'll find nothing
incriminating in my boy's room."
"Of course not, of course not," replied Hemingway, soothingly.
"That is what we most want---_not_ to find anything there. Will
you lead the way, please? Prescott, you may come and see the
search also."
So the four filed into the little room that served Dick as sleeping
apartment, study-room, den, library and all. Hemingway moved
quickly about, exploring the pockets of Dick's other clothing
hanging there. He delved into, under and behind all of the few
books there. This plain clothes man moved from place to place
with a speed and certainty that spoke of his long years of practice
in this sort of work.
"There's nothing left but the trunk, now," declared the policeman,
bending over and trying the lock. "The key to this, Prescott!"
Dick produced the key. Hemingway fitted it in the lock, throwing
up the lid. The trunk was but half filled, mostly with odds and
ends, for Dick was not a boy of many possessions. After a few
moments the policeman deftly produced, from the bottom, a gold
watch. This he laid on the floor without a word, and continued
the search. In another moment he had produced the jeweled pin
that exactly answered the description of the one belonging to
Mrs. Edwards.
Dick gave a gasp, then a low groan. A heart-broken sob welled
up in Mrs. Prescott's throat. Dr. Thornton turned as white as
chalk. Hemingway, an old actor in such things, did not show what
he felt---if he really felt it at all.
"These are the missing articles, aren't they?" asked the policeman,
straightening up and passing watch and pin to the High School
principal.
"I believe them to be," nodded Dr. Thornton, brokenly.
Mrs. Prescott had staggered forward, weeping and throwing her
arms around her son.
"O, Richard! Richard, my boy!" was all she could say.
"Mother, I know nothing about how those things came to be in my
trunk," protested the boy, sturdily. After his first groan the
young freshman, being all grit by nature, straightened up, feeling
that he could look all the world in the eye. Only his mother's
grief, and the knowledge that his father was soon to be hurt,
appealed to the softer side of young Prescott's nature.
"Mother, I have not stolen anything," the boy said, more solemnly,
after a pause. "I am your son. You believe me, don't you?"
"I'd sta
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