“No. Give it to me. It’s mine. My mind’s made up. That doesn’t make any difference at all.” “Yes, it does,” said Terence sharply. “It’s getting at you. You believe it’s true.” “It is true. Give it to me. I want it.” Terence pushed him away, then stretched out his hand towards Toby. “Take it,” he said. “Tell Rouse what you think of a thing like this.” Toby came towards him with a puzzled manner. He glanced quickly at Rouse, and noting his expression turned to Terence; then in the scramble for possession, he suddenly snatched the sheet of paper out of his hand and moved aside with it. Rouse stopped abruptly and looked at him hopelessly, while Terence, glaring defiantly, sat down at last in a chair and said: “Don’t be such an ass. Why shouldn’t he see it? It’s only Toby.” There was a short silence. At last Toby looked at them each in turn. “Where did you get this?” “He found it on the table when he came in after dinner,” said Terence. “Who do you suppose put it there?” “I only wish I knew.” “D’you know who wrote it?” “No,” said Terence. “Either someone’s disguised his handwriting or else it’s a mere kid.” “What does it matter anyway?” said Rouse. “It’s true, and that’s an end of it.” Toby was reading it through again and looking carefully at the writing. “As a matter of fact,” he said at last, “I can tell you who wrote this.” The two chums turned to him. “There’s only one fellow I know of who makes a ‘T’ like that,” said Toby. “It’s a pretty good effort at hiding his hand, but it’s not quite good enough. I could identify that ‘T’ anywhere. I’ve seen it too often. The fellow who wrote this is in my form.” He waited a moment as if that were an intentional hint. “Well?” said Terence. “Carr wrote this.” There was a moment’s utter stillness. At last Terence made a peculiar noise in his throat and turned contemptuously away. Rouse moved slowly towards Toby, and taking the note from him again looked at it once more. Then he said: “Carr? Why on earth should Carr write a thing like this?” “Oh, you ass,” cried Terence, jumping up with a wild gesture. “Can’t you see it? Haven’t you tumbled yet? Why, good Lord, man! whose fag is Carr?” “Coles’,” said Rouse, in a whisper. “Yes,” repeated Terence, “Coles’.” He waited a moment. “And so,” he added, “Carr wrote that because he was made to. Hasn’t Coles got a hold on the kid? Didn’t Henry tell us that Carr was the only fellow who wasn’t delighted about the match? Do you wonder he wasn’t delighted when he knew he’d got to write something like this on the strength of it? Coles probably intended to send you a note like this anyway. The Head’s given him a better opening than he ever bargained for, that’s all. Carr wrote it, yes. And Coles made it up.” Rouse turned very slowly upon his heel and faced him. “Then,” said he, “if that’s so, it may have been Coles who let the Head know that all you fellows had promised to share the blame if there were any trouble about this match.”