Hollister’s mind was in a turmoil. Unwilling to believe the worst of Blake, it was impossible not to realize that there must be something underhand about him or two such fellows as Merriwell and Hildebrand would never have said what they had against him. Bewildered and sick at heart, Bob made his way slowly to his rooms. Jim had gone out for the evening, so that he was alone, and, having tossed hat and overcoat aside, he dropped down in a chair. At any rate, he did not want to see Blake that night. With this thing on his mind, he could not feel at ease with him, and he would rather not see the man until he had come to some final decision as to what his course would be. All at once he glanced quickly at the clock. “By Jove!” he exclaimed, springing up. “He’s likely to be here any time.” Snatching up his coat and hat, he was about to hurry out when he heard the muffled slam of the big entrance door below. “I’ll bet that’s him now,” he muttered. The next moment he had switched off the light and hurried into the bedroom, where he softly drew the door partly shut and stood behind it. Presently a step sounded in the hall, followed by a knock at the door. Then the latch clicked and some one entered the room. “Hello, Bobby,” called a familiar voice. There was no response. Presently Blake stepped over to the electric light and switched it on. “Not here,” he murmured, his eyes traveling swiftly about the room. “That’s funny. He was ahead of me crossing the campus.” There was a pause during which the big, blond fellow whistled softly, as he walked up and down the room. “What’s the good of waiting?” he muttered at length. “He may not come in for an hour or two. His hash is as good as settled, anyhow. After the exhibition he made of himself to-day, the dean can’t help doing something. Maybe little Jarvie will play in the Harvard game after all.” He laughed softly; there was a click and the room was shrouded in darkness; the door closed and silence fell. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI THE CRASH. In the bedroom Bob Hollister stood silent, a rush of bitter anger and regret overwhelming him. Merriwell and Hildebrand and old Jim had all been right. What a blind fool he had been not to have seen through Blake before! What a perfect idiot they must think him! Presently he came back into the sitting room, and, turning on the light, stood hesitating in the middle of the room. It was up to him to get busy and do something pretty quick. He must not let Blake triumph. The sudden shock had made him realize his precarious position more clearly than a dozen arguments would have done, and there was now an added incentive to work. He was determined that Blake should not accomplish the purpose for which he had schemed. His blood was aroused to a boiling point. He would not be dropped!