“I mean that I’ve just come from a fine moment with Doctor McPherson. That Principal over there, Handley or whatever his silly name is, has written to the Doctor, and sent that clue along, too.” “Wow!” muttered Martin awedly. “Wha--what was the clue?” “My handkerchief.” “_Good night!_” “And sweet dreams,” added Willard ironically. “What did he say?” asked Martin after a moment of painful thought. Willard shrugged. “He said a lot! He wasn’t so bad, though. I’ll have to say that for him. I’m on hall bounds until the faculty gets together and decides whether I’m to be boiled in oil or merely drawn and quartered. You fellows may get by all right, though. I’m the only one they’re sure of so far. Why the dickens didn’t someone say that that brick wall was the Principal’s?” “How were we to know?” demanded Martin. “Why doesn’t he live inside where he ought to? Say, we managed to pick a couple of fine spots, didn’t we? It was a clever idea to paint up the side of the Chief of Police’s barn! Oh, we were a grand little bunch of nuts!” And Martin laughed mirthlessly. “Yes,” agreed Willard, “we surely managed to do things up brown while we were doing!” “Didn’t you tell ‘Mac’ that you didn’t have anything to do with it?” “That would have been a fine song-and-dance!” jeered Willard. “What if I didn’t do any of the actual painting? I went along, didn’t I? Besides, there was my handkerchief, all stuck up with black paint. He didn’t waste any time asking me whether I’d done it. All he wanted to know was who the others were.” “You might as well have told him,” said Martin gloomily. “He’ll find out quick enough.” “I don’t think so,” answered Willard. “No one saw us come back, and short of taking the whole school over there and letting the restaurant folks pick you fellows out, I don’t see how they’re going to tell.” Martin brightened. Then his face fell again. “We’ll have to fess up, Brand. It wouldn’t be fair to let you stand the whole racket.” “That’s a swell idea,” answered the other derisively. “You and Bob off the team would help a lot, wouldn’t it?” “We-ell--” Martin scowled in concentrated study of the problem. Then: “Look here,” he said, “a fellow’s got to eat, anyway. Let’s go to dinner. Afterwards we’ll find Bob and--” His remark was interrupted by a knock at the door followed by the entrance of Bob himself, a somewhat troubled looking Bob who, without noticing anything unusual in the looks of the roommates, plunged into speech. “Say, fellows,” he announced, lowering himself into a chair and viewing them frowningly, “I’m not quite easy in my mind about that business the other night.” “Really?” asked Martin. “How strange!” The sarcasm was lost, however. Bob shook his head and went on. “No, because I have a horrible suspicion that I tied that handkerchief to the handle of the paint can, Brand. And if I did they’ll find it, sure as shooting. I--I suppose it had your initials on it, eh?” Willard shook his head. “No,” he answered gently.