“Madame,” asked the plain clothes man, stepping to the door, “will you give your full consent to my searching your son’s room—–­in the presence of yourself and of Dr. Thornton, of course?  I am obliged to ask your permission, for, without a search warrant I have no other legal right than that which you may give me.”

“Of course you may search Richard’s room,” replied his mother, quickly.  “But you’ll be wasting your time, for you’ll find nothing incriminating in my boy’s room.”

“Of course not, of course not,” replied Hemingway, soothingly.  “That is what we most want—–­not to find anything there.  Will you lead the way, please?  Prescott, you may come and see the search also.”

So the four filed into the little room that served Dick as sleeping apartment, study-room, den, library and all.  Hemingway moved quickly about, exploring the pockets of Dick’s other clothing hanging there.  He delved into, under and behind all of the few books there.  This plain clothes man moved from place to place with a speed and certainty that spoke of his long years of practice in this sort of work.

“There’s nothing left but the trunk, now,” declared the policeman, bending over and trying the lock.  “The key to this, Prescott!”

Dick produced the key.  Hemingway fitted it in the lock, throwing up the lid.  The trunk was but half filled, mostly with odds and ends, for Dick was not a boy of many possessions.  After a few moments the policeman deftly produced, from the bottom, a gold watch.  This he laid on the floor without a word, and continued the search.  In another moment he had produced the jeweled pin that exactly answered the description of the one belonging to Mrs. Edwards.

Dick gave a gasp, then a low groan.  A heart-broken sob welled up in Mrs. Prescott’s throat.  Dr. Thornton turned as white as chalk.  Hemingway, an old actor in such things, did not show what he felt—–­if he really felt it at all.

“These are the missing articles, aren’t they?” asked the policeman, straightening up and passing watch and pin to the High School principal.

“I believe them to be,” nodded Dr. Thornton, brokenly.

Mrs. Prescott had staggered forward, weeping and throwing her arms around her son.

“O, Richard!  Richard, my boy!” was all she could say.

“Mother, I know nothing about how those things came to be in my trunk,” protested the boy, sturdily.  After his first groan the young freshman, being all grit by nature, straightened up, feeling that he could look all the world in the eye.  Only his mother’s grief, and the knowledge that his father was soon to be hurt, appealed to the softer side of young Prescott’s nature.

“Mother, I have not stolen anything,” the boy said, more solemnly, after a pause.  “I am your son.  You believe me, don’t you?”

“I’d stake my life on your innocence when you’ve given me your word!” declared that loyal woman.