Puzzled, Barry again shook his head. “No, sir.” Then, with a weak smile: “I don’t believe he’d let me,” he added. “Still, it wouldn’t be difficult to do a little writing on it if he happened to be out, I suppose?” the Major persisted. “I――I suppose not,” answered Barry, slowly; “only, he almost never is out.” “I see. Well, to come down to cases, Locke, here’s what brought me around to see you.” The Major took an envelop from a pocket and drew forth two folded sheets of paper. “I’m very glad to hear you say that you don’t use a typewriter, for this letter is typewritten. Know what it is?” “No, sir.” Barry stared, his eyes rather round by now. “I didn’t think you did. You mustn’t mind my asking, though; nor about the typewriter, either. I was merely trying to――well, strengthen my own conviction. Here, just read this.” Barry took the missive and perused it with frowning brow. It was neatly written on a single sheet of school paper with a typewriter such as Toby owned and with a black ribbon. It ran as follows: MR. GEORGE PRINCE, HOSKINS ACADEMY, FAIRMOUNT, CONN. DEAR SIR: If you want some inside dope on Broadmoor football I am in position to supply it. I can tell you signals to be used against your team and explain several new plays that our coach is teaching. This is strictly confidential, so if you are not interested kindly destroy this letter and say nothing about it. I am not looking for money or other reward, but just to get square with persons who have treated me mean. Address X. Y. Z., 104 Bridge St., Wessex, Conn. CONFIDENTIAL. Barry’s mind was in strange confusion as he ended. “Why――why,” he stammered in amazement, “that’s this house!” The Major nodded. “Yes. That’s why I’m here. You see, Locke, you’re the only one here that could possibly supply that sort of information. Hold on! Let me finish, please. You haven’t been under serious suspicion, my boy. Of course for a moment I was forced to consider you, but only for a moment. I showed the letter to Captain Buckley and he simply echoed my own opinion. ‘It’s a silly hoax,’ he said. ‘Locke wouldn’t have any purpose in doing a thing like that, and he isn’t the sort to do it, anyway.’ So I just dropped in to talk it over with you. Whether it is a hoax or not――and surely it must be――it’s unpleasant, and I’d like to find who wrote that letter. Do you happen to know?” Barry was staring again at the sheet in his hand, noting now something that had at first escaped him. At four places in the course of the writing a letter stood slightly above the level of the line, and that letter was always a B. He shook his head, glad that the coach had formed his question as he had. “No, sir, I don’t,” he answered gravely. “You had no hand in it? I mean, you knew nothing of it? Some one might have written it as a joke, of course, and I wondered if you mightn’t have had an inkling, Locke.”