Jonesie folded the note up with a broad smile. Then, whistling softly,
he went to the closet and rescued the tennis racket. When it was once
more on the mantel he had a sudden thought and his gaze darted across
to where Sparrow sat under the drop light, reading. There was something
far too good to be true in Sparrow’s preoccupation and Jonesie scowled.
At length:
“Anything about this note you’d like to have explained?” he asked
sarcastically.
Sparrow looked up, blinking. Then he shook his head slowly.
“N-no, I guess not. It’s none of my business, Jonesie.”
“Then what did you open it for?” Jonesie exploded.
“Why, it was sort of dark in here and I thought it was for me,”
explained Sparrow calmly. “Of course, when I saw it wasn’t――――”
“You read it through! After this you leave my notes alone. Do you hear?”
“Sure! I don’t want to read your old notes.”
“Then don’t do it,” growled Jonesie.
“All right. That fellow Wigman must be an awful fool, though.”
“Why?” challenged the other.
“Why, to give you that racket! I don’t know what he thinks you did for
him, Jonesie, but I’m mighty sure you didn’t do it!”