“You’ll weep all right if you don’t shut up!” declared Clint savagely.  “And don’t walk so fast.  I’ve got a bum knee.”

Halfway to Torrence Amy stopped suddenly and clasped a hand to his forehead.  “Woe is me!” he declaimed.

“What is it?” asked Clint impatiently.

“I’ve left my pretty little trophy behind.  I’ll have to beat it back, Clint, and rescue it.  Can’t you picture the poor little thing sitting there all alone in pathetic solitude, forlorn and deserted?”

“I’ll bet no one would steal it,” said Clint unkindly.

“Perhaps not, perhaps not, but suppose it rained, Clint, and it’s little insides got full of water!  I mustn’t risk it.  Farewell!”

Amy didn’t get back to the room until half an hour later, but he had his precious tennis trophy, and explained as he placed it on top his chiffonier and stood off to view the effect, that he had stopped at the courts to learn the results and afterwards at Main Hall to get mail.  “Brooks and Chase won two straight,” he said, “just as I expected they would.  What did I do with that score-sheet, by the way?  Oh, here it is.”  He drew it from an inner pocket of his jacket, and with it a blue envelope which fell to the floor.  He picked it up, with a chuckle.  “Look at this, Clint.  I found it in the mail and nearly had heart disease.  Too well do I know those blue envelopes and Josh’s copper-plate writing!  Catch it.  I tried to think of something I’d done, and couldn’t, and then I opened it and found that thing!”

Clint drew a sheet of paper from the blue envelope.  On it was pasted a short newspaper clipping and above the clipping was written in the principal’s minute writing:  “Thought you’d like to see this.  J.L.F.”  Clint read the clipping: 

“Wharton, Oct. 24—­The Stamford police yesterday took into custody James Phee and William Curtin, charged with numerous burglaries throughout the state within the past month, among them that of Black and Wiggin’s jewelry store in this city a fortnight ago.  The suspected men were trying to dispose of a small roadster automobile when arrested and their willingness to part with it at a ridiculously low figure placed them under suspicion.  This car is presumably the one with which they operated and successfully escaped arrest for so long.  The Stamford police are trying to find the real owner of the car.  It is believed that the two men got away with at least four thousand dollars’ worth of goods of various kinds during their recent campaign, of which none has been recovered except that stolen from Black and Wiggin.  In that case almost a thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry which the burglars secured by blowing the safe was discovered the following day buried in the ground on property belonging to Thomas Fairleigh about four miles from town, a piece of detective work reflecting great credit on Chief Carey.”

“I notice,” commented Clint with a smile, “that no credit is given to Amory Byrd and Clinton Thayer for their share in the discovery.”