Well, Barry was, too, so glad that it was some little time after Peaches had gone back to his own room that the thought of Clyde’s treachery returned to leaven his pleasure. He didn’t want to believe Clyde guilty, but he had to. The evidence was too strong to admit of doubt. There was Clyde’s threat to keep him out of the Hoskins game, a threat never really recanted; there was the typewriter in Clyde’s room that printed the B’s out of alignment; and finally, there were Clyde’s almost anxious efforts to be agreeable, efforts which viewed in the light of to-night’s developments were so plainly designed to avert suspicion should suspicion later fall on him. Peaches had brought up one apparently weak spot in the plot before they had ceased discussion of it, and his subsequent explanation had not been wholly satisfactory. Suppose, he had propounded, that Prince, the Hoskins coach, had simply dropped that letter contemptuously into the waste-basket. In that case nothing could have come of it. It was, Peaches thought, taking a pretty long chance, the odds being about even that the design to implicate Barry would fail. They had puzzled over that for some time before Peaches offered his solution. “What may have happened was this,” Peaches had said. “The fellow who did it may have taken a carbon copy. If nothing happened after a few days he would ‘find’ the copy somewhere and see that it got to the Major or, perhaps, Captain Buck. Then if they called up the coach at Hoskins and asked if such a letter had been received――well, there you are! Sort of an awkward, roundabout scheme, but I don’t see any other way it could have been done, do you?” Barry didn’t, but a thought had come to him at about the same moment it reached Peaches. “If the fellow who wrote it sees that I’m still playing――” “He’s likely to produce the copy!” They had looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Peaches had added in a detached way, “Unless, of course, some one tipped him off.” “Yes,” Barry had agreed thoughtfully. They had talked of other things after that; largely of football and Barry’s reinstatement and of Friday night at the big log cabin near the summit of Mount Sippick where the team was taken every year on the eve of the Big Game. Now, ready for bed, Barry still lingered. Twice he wandered to the desk and fingered a pad of paper and twice he went away without penning the line that had composed itself. L. has received a letter from P.