"Nothing." Bob hesitated. "It's only on account of his nationality. You know how Bixton's talked about him. You know, too, why our fellows were poisoned. He's the only G. A. in this barrack. He was on kitchen duty. Now suppose he had some trifle among his belongings that was perfectly all right in itself, but looked fishy to the search party? It's not likely to be so, but it might be." CHAPTER XVIII THE CLUE What transpired the next day seemed to the Khaki Boys more in the nature of a wild nightmare than stark reality. As Bob had foreseen, morning brought a flock of newspaper men from not too far distant cities to the scene of the disaster. Excitement, however, reached fever heat when the latest editions of the evening papers flaunted black scareheads such as, "Soldier Suspected of Poisoning His Comrades." "Incriminating Evidence Found Among Soldier's Belongings." "Franz Schnitzel, a German-American, Accused as Poisoner," and similar glaring headlines. That same morning a guard detail had entered Company E's barracks with instructions to search the belongings of such of the kitchen men detained on suspicion who were housed in those barracks. Nothing of importance had been unearthed except in the suitcase of Schnitzel. What had been found there was deemed sufficiently serious in character to warrant holding him on a charge of murder, to await trial by a court martial. Not only had a medium-sized bottle of powdered glass been taken from the suitcase, but also a typed sheet of paper, listing various poisons, together with annotations as to the effect, length of time required to act, and the more or less deadly qualities of each. "I'll never believe it of Schnitz. Never!" exclaimed Jimmy Blaise passionately. Tucked into a corner of the "Y" writing room, with Roger and Bob, the three had just finished reading the account of the affair, as set forth in the evening papers. "Schnitz isn't guilty any more than I am." "Schnitz isn't guilty, of course." Bob gave a contemptuous snort. "In the first place, I don't believe it was powdered glass that went into that pudding. I'll bet the findings of the autopsy and chemical analysis will prove that it was something else." "Then he'll be cleared of the charge, won't he?" eagerly asked Jimmy. "Cleared nothing," was the gloomy retort. "He'll be third degreed to a frazzle to make him confess that he used the poison that did the killing. That list of poisons and the bottle of powdered glass are too strong evidence against him to be overlooked. He's been caught with the goods, you might say. _I_ say he's been caught in a trap laid by an _enemy_." "You don't mean you think that----" Jimmy paused. "I do mean just that. But before I say more, let me ask you something. Was Bixton in the squad room all last evening while I was out?" "I don't remember." Jimmy frowned reflectively. "Let me think. I saw him sitting on his cot around seven o'clock. After that----"