“Was when, Arthur?”
“It was last Monday. I was all finished, but I wanted to check one or two books in the school library against what I’d written. So I brought the paper to school, and—”
“And what?” Mr. Strang could barely restrain his impatience.
“Ralph was all done, he told me. But he wanted to have a look at a book on cloning I had at my house. So we walked home together.”
“Did he ever see your paper? Even for a minute?”
“I don’t see how he could. It was in my notebook the whole time. On the way home we stopped off at Ralph’s so he could get some notes. While he went for them, I waited in the kitchen. Mrs. Milleridge gave me a cupcake.”
“Aha! And where was your notebook then?”
“On a chair in the living room where we’d left our coats.”
“Better and better,” said Mr. Strang, rubbing his hands. “So while you were in the kitchen, Arthur could have taken your paper and written out—”
“Hey, Mr. Strang! We were only in the house for about five minutes. Just long enough for Ralph to get his notes. He wouldn’t have had time to read my paper, much less write out a copy.”
“Oh.” The teacher’s triumphant smile faded.
“Then we went on to my house. I found the book, and Ralph asked if he could borrow it. So I let him. He took it home. But he forgot to take the rest of his stuff. I had to bring it to school the next day.”
“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Strang. “You mean to say that Ralph Milleridge left his notebook at your house overnight?”
“Sure, but—”
“Ouch!” The teacher made a wry face. “Not good, Arthur.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said that Ralph couldn’t have copied your paper. But you’ve also told me that you had access to his books — and presumably his research paper — for at least twelve hours. You’d have had plenty of time to copy his—”
“But I didn’t, Mr. Strang. I didn’t.” Fresh tears sparkled in Arthur’s eyes.
“All right, Arthur, all right. But you can see how bad it looks for you. You had an opportunity to copy Ralph’s paper. And then there’s that confounded envelope. Ciliata! If I could find out how that was managed, I’d—”
The sound of a doorknob being rattled came from the kitchen. Mr. Strang lifted his head, wondering who’d be trying the rear door. Then a key was inserted and the lock snapped back. “Who’s there?” called the teacher as the door creaked open.
“And who d’ye think’d be cornin’ callin’ at this hour o’ the night?” Mrs. Mackey’s rich Irish brogue carried with it hints of the green fields of Kilkenny and peat fires glowing in small cottages. “Seems only right I should be allowed entrance into me own house.” She waddled into the living room, her ruddy, smiling face belying her stern words.
“But why didn’t you come in the front way as you always do?” Mr. Strang asked.
“Because some fool bolted the door on the inside so even with my key it wouldn’t open. You wouldn’t have no idea how the door got bolted, would you, Mr. Strang?”
The teacher’s face reddened. “I’m afraid I’m guilty as charged, Mrs. Mackey,” he said. “When Arthur came in—”
“Ah, ye’ve got a guest. Yer pardon for disturbin’ you. No harm done. ’Twas no trouble coming in the rear way. I’ll be off to bed now. Help yerselves to what’s in the fridge.” And with that Mrs. Mackey ponderously climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Mr. Strang looked after her, his face blank. Then he turned back to Arthur. “Did you hear what she said?” he asked.
“Sure,” Arthur replied. “She said she was going to bed.”
“No, no. Before that.”
“She was bawling you out for bolting the door and making her come in through the kitchen. But I don’t see what that’s got to do with—”
“But that’s it. Of course! That has to be it.”
“What has to be what, Mr. Strang?”
Mr. Strang rose stiffly from his chair and extended a hand. “Arthur,” he said dramatically, “I hereby pronounce you innocent of any wrongdoing in regard to your research paper.”
“But how could Ralph—”
“Not now,” the teacher replied. “When I explain what really happened with those papers, I want young Mr. Milleridge in the room. Just so I can see the look on that young rascal’s face!”
The following Tuesday, Mr. Guthrey called a meeting after school in his office. Those attending included Mr. Strang, Arthur Osgood, and Ralph Milleridge. When all were present, Mr. Guthrey dismissed his secretary and closed the office door.
“Mr. Strang says he’s gotten to the bottom of this term-paper business,” said the principal from his exalted position at the head of the large conference table. “So I’ll turn the — er — program over to him.”
“What’s going to happen to Artie?” asked Ralph. “Look, you’re not going to be too hard on him, are you?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to Arthur,” replied Mr. Strang. “For the simple reason that he’s done nothing to deserve punishment.”
“Didn’t do anything?” cried Ralph. “He stole my paper, didn’t he?”
“Oh, Ralph, Ralph,” sighed Mr. Strang with a shake of his head. “This won’t do. It really won’t. Why not own up now to what you’ve done and save us all a lot of trouble?”
“I haven’t done anything. And I can prove it. The envelope—”
“Yes, yes,” said the teacher. “Similar to this one, wasn’t it?” From his briefcase he removed a brown manila envelope. “Sold at Pen and Ink Stationery here in Aldershot? Nine-by-twelve size?”
“Yes, that’s the kind I used.”
“Good. Then perhaps you’ll indulge me while I perform a little demonstration.”
Mr. Strang removed his black-rimmed glasses from his pocket and put them on with a flourish. Over the years, thousands of his students had seen him make this same gesture in the classroom just before an experiment was about to be started.
“Here, an envelope similar to the one Ralph mailed his paper in.” Again Mr. Strang reached into his briefcase. “And here, a sheet of blank paper. Will you place it in the envelope, Ralph? And seal the flap, please?”
The paper was inserted. Ralph Milleridge licked the flap of the envelope and bent the metal fastener up. Then he pressed down the flap carefully, finally locking it in place with the fastener.
“Still not good enough,” declared Mr. Strang, reaching for the briefcase once more. This time it yielded a roll of plastic tape.
“Just like the stuff you used, Ralph. Go ahead. Seal up the envelope with it. The same way you did with the other one.”
Mr. Guthrey furnished a small penknife with which the tape was cut into short lengths. When Ralph finished flattening it into place, the flap was proof against anything short of a sharp pair of shears.
“Now, Mr. Guthrey, would you please draw a stamp right where the one was on the other envelope? That’s it, just opposite the flap. Make your sketch as ornate as you like. Something you’ll recognize when you see it again. Even put your initials on it. Ah, that’s fine.”
Mr. Strang produced another sheet of paper. “Finally,” he said, “I’d like each of you to make some identifying marks on this. Sign your names or put down anything else you like. Just so you’ll know this paper when next it appears.”
When this was completed, Mr. Strang took the sealed envelope and the paper, which now had three signatures scrawled across it, and got up from his place. “I must ask your indulgence for about ten minutes,” he announced. “At the end of that time the demonstration will be completed.” And before anyone could comment, he left the office.