“I have reasons to believe that a party present in this room was guilty of rifling that desk. It happens that I did a slight favor for the younger brother of this lad here, who is a bell boy at the Central, and Sammy’s conscience has been troubling him during the past few days, finally leading him into a confession which interested me not a little. Go ahead, Sammy, and tell what you have to tell.” In less than a minute, the icy Mr. Hutchinson, warmed to the melting point, was on his feet denouncing Sammy Bryant as a wicked little fabricator; for the lad had told of being bribed by Hutchinson to slip the pass-key of Locke’s room from the office rack and unlock the door while Tom was absent at church, and had averred that, watching, he had seen Hutchinson sneak into the room. “I’ll make you smart for this, you young rascal!” declared Hutch savagely. “You’ll lose your job, anyhow.” “Mebbe,” returned the boy; “but you’ll lose _yourn_.” “What’s this mess got t’ do with Hazelton’s letter ter me?” demanded Riley, essaying a diversion. “If it was true, which I don’t b’lieve at all, ’twouldn’t have nothin’ t’ do with the genuineness of that letter from Paul Hazelton.” “But,” said Locke, something almost like pity in his contemptuous smile, “to illustrate what pitiful bunglers you and Hutchinson are, Riley, let me tell you that in making an imitation of my handwriting and attaching the supposed signature of Paul Hazelton, you have mired yourselves in a pit of your own digging. For, as I am not Paul Hazelton, a letter written in imitation of my penmanship and signed with his name _must_ be a forgery. It is my turn now to put the work of a photographer in evidence.” CHAPTER XLVI CLEARED UP The youthful stranger handed over a large, square, flat package, and Locke quickly removed the wrapper, displaying a group photograph of a team of youthful baseball players, upon the breasts of whose shirts could be seen the word “Princeton.” “This,” said Tom, displaying the picture, “shows the Princeton College nine of this season, with the name of every player printed at the bottom. Here you may see the name of Hazelton, followed by the letter P, and I would like to have you look at it well; look at it, and see if you would call it my picture. Also look over the rest of the faces to see if you can find mine among them.” Shaking with excitement, his eyes bulging with wonder, Henry Cope was standing on his toes to peer at the picture over Locke’s shoulder. Anson Graham was looking at it, too; and, with the exception of Hutchinson and King, the others flocked round to get a peep. “Great sassafras!” spluttered Cope. “I writ a letter, makin’ Paul Hazelton an offer to pitch for Kingsbridge, and _you_ come in answer to that letter. You likewise sent me a message――”