“I can see—and I am sure of what I say—how he realized that the press and the public would forgive and condone a dead man, when, if he lived, the brunt of the whole matter would fall on his beloved College and on the woman he loved and respected. “Now—as I feel sure he foresaw—such of this story as must be made public will have far less weight and prominence, than if he were alive. _I_ know all this is so—for, I knew John Waring as few people knew him.” A grateful glance from John Waring’s daughter thanked him for this tribute. “That ten thousand dollar check?” Trask said, suddenly, for his mind was still concerned with the financial side. “I think that must have been sent to my mother,” said Anita. “She, as I told you, returned to the use of her maiden name, and during our interview, my father told me he should write her at once and send her money. I feel sure he did do so—” “Without doubt,” Lockwood said; “and if so, the letter would have been mailed with the collection next morning. The returning voucher will show.” “Also the letter he wrote my mother will corroborate all I have told you,” said Anita, and both her assertion and Gordon’s, later came true. “I felt,” Anita said, by way of further explanation, “that Mrs. Bates ought to know all. So, when Mrs. Adams practically put me out of her house, and I had no wish to accept Mr. Trask’s invitation to come over here, nor,” she smiled affectionately at Lockwood, “could I fall in with your crazy plans—I just went next door and told Mrs. Bates all about it. She was very dear and sweet to me, and now, if you please, I will go back there. I am weary and exhausted—I cannot stand any more. But when you want me, I can be found at Mrs. Bates’. I leave all matters to be decided or settled, in the hands of Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Stone. Fibsy, dear, will you escort me home?” With a suddenly acquired dignity, Fibsy rose, and stood by her side, and in a moment the two went away together. When the boy returned the others were absorbed in the discussion of the mysterious death of John Waring. “I’m inclined to give it up,” Fleming Stone said, thinking deeply. “Don’t do it, F. Stone,” Fibsy said, earnestly. “It’s better to find out. You never have gave up a case.” “No. Well, Fibs, which way shall we look?” A strange embarrassment came over the boy’s face, and then he said, diffidently: “Say, gentlemen, could I be left alone in this room for a little while? I don’t say I kin find out anythin’—but I do wanta try.” The lapse into careless enunciation told Stone how much in earnest his young colleague was, and he rose, saying, “You certainly may, my boy. The rest of us will have a conference in some other room, as to what part of Miss Austin’s story must be made public.” Left to himself, Fibsy went at once to the bookcase that held the defaced copy of Martial, that John Waring had been reading the night he died.