Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 77, No. 7. Whole No. 454, June 17, 1981

Mr. Strang Unlocks a Door by William Brittain

© 1981 by William Brittain

Mr. Leonard Strang, the amateur criminologist of Aldershot High School, has been absent from our pages for more than three years. No, he hasn’t retired; the wizened, gnome-like science teacher has been on a long sabbatical — away from classrooms and crimes. And now he’s back, confronting an academic problem that has tormented teachers since time immemorial...

It was the thirtieth of May, and the sunshine was bright outside the office window. There hadn’t been a parental complaint in nearly a week; an incipient food fight in the cafeteria had been averted by the simple expedient of putting pizza back on the menu; and the school’s baseball team had won its last four games in a row. For Marvin W. Guthrey, principal of Aldershot High School, life was good. With a contented sigh he snuggled against the smooth leather of his high-backed swivel chair.

The office door flew open with a loud bang. In the opening stood the small rumpled figure of Mr. Leonard Strang, Aldershot’s veteran science teacher. He held some papers in one hand, and the other fist was tightly clenched. On the gnomelike teacher’s face was an expression of total outrage.

Mr. Strang had been at Aldershot High School for thirty-three years — sixteen more than Guthrey himself. And in all that time he’d been a stickler for politeness, for observing the amenities of civilized behavior. So Guthrey knew that for Mr. Strang to come barging unceremoniously into the principal’s office spelled trouble with a capital T.

“Leonard,” said the principal solicitously. “What’s wrong?”

“I am annoyed!” replied Mr. Strang. “More than that, I am provoked, irritated, and incensed! In all my years of teaching I have never seen such a brazen attempt—”

He stopped abruptly and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “In!” he ordered.

Two boys slunk silently into the office. Guthrey recognized both of them. Arthur Osgood was scarcely an inch taller than Mr. Strang himself. In his green jacket, and peering about through large bulbous eyes, Arthur Osgood put the principal in mind of a myopic frog. By contrast, Ralph Milleridge was a colossus, his muscles rippling beneath a sweatshirt with ALDERSHOT ATHLETICS stenciled on it.

“Sit down!” ordered Mr. Strang. The two boys sat. The teacher looked across the desk at the astounded Mr. Guthrey.

“Today,” began Mr. Strang, “I collected the research papers from my advanced biology class. The papers were assigned last September and represent a full year’s work. Much of the final mark for the year is based on—”

“Okay, okay,” said Guthrey. “What’s the problem?”

“I glanced through the papers at lunch,” the teacher replied. “Take a look at this.” He placed a small pile of papers on Guthrey’s desk.

“It seems Arthur wrote about cloning,” said the principal. “Let me see... ‘To the average person, the word clone brings to mind images of huge monsters or zombie-like humanoids designed to do the bidding of their masters.’ ” Guthrey looked up. “Not bad so far, Leonard.”

Mr. Strang began reading from the top page of the papers still in his hand. “ ‘It should be understood, however, that at present, cloning — the use of a single cell from a living organism to produce an exact genetic duplicate of the donor — is limited to—”

Guthrey frowned and pointed to the paper on his desk. “That’s exactly what this one says, Leonard.”

“Yes,” replied the teacher. “It seems one of these two papers is itself a clone. They’re identical from beginning to end. Fourteen pages of solid research by one of these boys. And of cheating by the other.”

“But which—” Guthrey began.

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” answered Mr. Strang. “I’ll probably have to fail the cheater, and as this is a class for seniors only, he may not graduate. I thought the problem was serious enough to bring to your attention.”

“Of course,” said Guthrey. “But because it is so serious, we have to be absolutely sure who the guilty party is.”

There was a long silence. Then Arthur Osgood spoke up. “I–I know how things look, Mr. Strang,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “But that paper’s all my own work. I swear—”

“Hey, Artie,” interrupted Ralph Milleridge. “C’mon, man! You tried a little scam, and it didn’t work. Didn’t you think anybody would see that your paper’s just like the one I wrote?”

Mr. Strang and Guthrey looked at each other. The answer they were searching for wasn’t going to be found easily — if indeed it was found at all.

“Both papers typed,” murmured Mr. Strang. “Footnotes — bibliography — all identical. They were done on different machines. The quality of your typing seems to be much better than Arthur’s, Ralph.”

“My father’s got an office at home,” said Ralph. “With a computer and everything. All the latest equipment. Including one of those typewriters with a TV screen where you can correct any mistakes and then the machine makes a perfect copy. But just because Dad let me use his office doesn’t mean—”

“It isn’t neatness we’re concerned with here,” said Mr. Strang. “It’s honesty. Tell me, Ralph, when did you finish your paper?”

“About three weeks ago. It was the day of the game against Bentley High. I remember because I pitched that day.”

Guthrey consulted his calendar. “That would be May tenth — a Saturday.”

“And you?” Mr. Strang asked Arthur.

“Last weekend. Sunday afternoon.”

“You see,” said Ralph. “My paper was finished two weeks ahead of Artie’s. So he had to copy from me.”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Strang. “I don’t suppose either of you has some kind of proof — aside from your unsupported word — that you completed the paper when you said you did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Mr. Strang peered at Ralph Milleridge over the tops of his black-rimmed glasses. “You can prove you finished your paper on May tenth, Ralph?”

“I sure can. I mailed myself a copy.”

“You what?”

“I sealed a carbon copy of my paper in an envelope and mailed it to myself. Dad does that sometimes when he writes something and he doesn’t want anybody else to steal his idea. The postmark tells when you did the work. Here, I’ll show you.”

Ralph leafed through the notebook in his lap. Finally he came up with a 9 x 12 inch brown manila envelope. He handed it to Mr. Strang.

“Looks like the flap is sealed with tape,” said Guthrey.

“Sealed? It’s practically bound and gagged.” The teacher examined the shiny strips that crisscrossed one another over the envelope’s flap. “And the tape’s got glass fibers running through it. The adhesive’s strong, and the tape itself can’t be broken. You would have to cut it. This flap hasn’t been tampered with, that’s for sure.”

He turned the envelope over. In addition to Ralph Milleridge’s name and address, the message First Class Mail was printed and underlined.

“The stamp cancellation seems to be in order,” muttered Mr. Strang, peering closely at it. “Part of the postmark is smudged where it printed onto a strip of tape that was folded over the edge of the envelope. But it was mailed in Aldershot, all right.”

“The date, Leonard,” said Guthrey impatiently. “What’s the postmark date?”

“May thirteenth.”

“You see,” said Ralph. “The tenth was a Saturday. I mailed this late the following Monday, after school. So it got postmarked the next day — Tuesday, the thirteenth.”

Without replying, Mr. Strang picked up a long pair of scissors from Guthrey’s desk. With some difficulty he worked the point under the layers of tape sealing the flap. Cutting through both tape and flap, he opened the end of the envelope.

Inside was a small sheaf of papers — a carbon copy of Ralph Milleridge’s work. The teacher removed the first page, glanced at it, and shook his head sadly.

“Read it, Leonard,” ordered Guthrey. “Read it out loud.”

“ ‘To the average person, the word clone brings to mind images of huge monsters or...”

Guthrey turned to Arthur Osgood. “You’ve already admitted you didn’t finish your paper until this past weekend, Arthur,” he said. “That’s about ten days after this was mailed. It’s pretty evident that you must have copied Ralph’s work. As a result I’m forced to—”

“No! I didn’t cheat!” And with a loud cry Arthur Osgood ran out of the office.

Driving home through the peaceful streets of Aldershot that afternoon, Mr. Strang growled angrily at himself, and the pipe between his clenched teeth emitted clouds of foul-smelling smoke. Arthur had cheated, that was evident. The sealed envelope containing Ralph Milleridge’s carbon copy and dated May thirteenth was proof beyond all question.

Still, Mr. Strang had doubts. Why, for example, had Ralph mailed himself a copy of his paper in the first place? And why would he carry the envelope with him into the principal’s office? It was almost as if he expected someone to copy his work. Or else—

The teacher swung the wheel sharply, drove two blocks out of his way, and stopped at the Aldershot post office. The postmaster, Dewey Langdon, was a former pupil of Mr. Strang’s, and he greeted the teacher jovially.

“Hi, Professor. Read any good books lately?” And Langdon laughed loudly.

Mr. Strang smiled — a bit grimly, perhaps — and put the first of his questions.

“Dewey, are you acquainted with a boy named Ralph Milleridge?”

“Sure. He’s in here from time to time. Darnedest thing, now that I think of it. He was in here a few weeks back, mailing a letter to himself.”

“Oh? What did it look like?” asked the teacher.

“One of those big brown envelopes. The flap was taped down real good as if there was something valuable inside. I weighed it in and gave Ralph fifty-four cents in stamps. Four ounces, first class mail. He stuck the stamps on the envelope and mailed the thing. That’s about it.”

“Fifty-four cents? You remember that?”

“Sure do. One of the quarters he gave me was Canadian. I had to ask him for a U.S. quarter — that’s why I remember the incident. Something else I can do for you, Mr. Strang? We’ve got a bargain in fifteen-cent stamps today. Two for thirty cents.” And again Dewey’s hoarse laugh rang out in the small post office.

“No, Dewey. But I appreciate the information.”

So much for the theory that the tape had been added after the envelope was delivered, thought the teacher as he drove off.

Mrs. Mackey, the owner of the house where Mr. Strang rented a small second-floor room, was out when he got home. She’d left a note saying that she was visiting her nephew and wouldn’t be home until late. So, as the teacher sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of canned soup and watching the sunset through the rear window, he was surprised to hear the front door softly open and then close.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

There was a rustling sound from the living room. Mr. Strang went to investigate. At first he saw nothing. But then he spotted the dim figure sitting in a gloomy corner. He snapped on the lights.

“Arthur Osgood, what are you doing here?” asked the teacher in surprise.

Arthur, red-eyed and with tears streaming down his cheeks, spoke in a high reedy voice. “Don’t get mad, Mr. Strang. The doorbell didn’t work, and the front door was unlocked, and — and I just came in.”

Mr. Strang went to the door and shot the inside bolt. Then he turned to Arthur again. “You just don’t walk into people’s houses unannounced and take a seat,” he said. He was about to go on when the distraught expression on Arthur’s face silenced him.

“But I had to see you, Mr. Strang. I wouldn’t ever — I didn’t—”

Mr. Strang sat down opposite the boy. “Arthur,” he began, “I don’t know what to tell you. All year long I’ve stressed the importance of that paper to your final grade. Why did you have to—”

“But I didn’t, Mr. Strang. I swear I didn’t cheat! And now I’m not going to graduate and — and—”

“Arthur, you’ll graduate. You have enough credits, even without my class. Maybe I came on a bit strong in Mr. Guthrey’s office, but you’ll graduate. Does that make you happy?”

“No, sir. It doesn’t.”

“No? Then what is it you want?”

“I–I don’t want to leave school with you thinking I cheated on any of my work, Mr. Strang.”

For a moment the old teacher felt as if someone had jabbed him in the solar plexis. In the long silence that followed, tears welled up in his own eyes. He blinked them back and looked at the blurred figure of Arthur Osgood.

“Does my esteem really mean that much to you?” Mr. Strang asked softly.

The boy nodded.

“As I live and breathe,” muttered the teacher to himself. “In this day and age, to find a young person who values the good opinion of others — remarkable! The era of Being Cool and Doing Your Own Thing still has a few kids who put reputation above all else. Remarkable indeed.”

“Huh?” said the boy.

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Strang, with a shake of his head. “Nothing, Arthur. But for what it’s worth I believe you. In spite of the evidence. I don’t think you copied Ralph’s paper. Anyone who did something like that wouldn’t come calling the way you did this evening.”

“Thanks, Mr. Strang. It means a lot to me.” Arthur let out a long sigh. “But I guess everybody else will figure I cheated anyway.”

“I suppose they will.” But then Mr. Strang pounded the arm of his chair viciously. “No, confound it! If you didn’t cheat, then Ralph Milleridge did. And he came up with that envelope gimmick to prove his innocence when the two papers were discovered. The question is, how did he manage it?”

For several moments both teacher and student pondered the problem. Could the flap have been tampered with in some way? No, Mr. Strang was sure that was impossible, especially in light of what Dewey Langdon had told him. Could a duplicate envelope have been used somehow, or the postmark forged? In fiction perhaps, but not by a high-school student in real life.

“All right, Arthur,” said Mr. Strang finally. “Let’s start at the beginning. Is there any way Ralph could have got a look at your work?”

Arthur thought about this. “I don’t see how,” he said. “I mean, we were both doing papers on cloning, so we talked about the references we were using and stuff like that. But the only time I took my paper out of the house was—”

“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.

In less than ten minutes he returned. The envelope, still tightly sealed, was in his hand. The signed paper was nowhere in sight.

“Here,” said the teacher dramatically, “is your envelope, Mr. Guthrey. Will you verify that it has the stamp you drew on it and initialed?”

“Why, yes,” said the principal. “That’s it, all right. But—”

“Now will you open it, please? That penknife should do the trick.”

With the small knife Guthrey hacked his way through the layers of tape. Finally he made an opening clear across the end of the envelope.

“Now remove what’s inside,” said Mr. Strang, leaning forward like a cat about to pounce on its prey.

“Leonard, it’s got to be the blank paper we put in — good lord!” Slowly Guthrey drew the paper from the envelope. On one side were three signatures. Ralph Milleridge’s. Arthur Osgood’s. And Marvin W. Guthrey’s.

“How — how did you—” Guthrey sputtered.

“First, will you agree that within reason I’ve duplicated what went on here last Friday?”

“Of course. But — but how did you unseal that flap?”

“The flap,” said Mr. Strang with the chuckle. “That glued-down, clamped-down, taped-down flap. The one part of the envelope which, with its adhesive trappings, got all our attention. It’s so obviously the only entrance into our miniature locked room. I admit, I was as taken with it as any of you. At least until my landlady, Mrs. Mackey, said something that cleared up the whole thing.”

“What was it?” asked Guthrey. “What did she say?”

“She came in through the back door the other evening after I’d bolted the front one. ‘Twas no trouble coming in the rear way,’ she told me.”

“I still don’t understand, Leonard.”

“When she said that, Mr. Guthrey, it suddenly occurred to me that the envelope has a kind of ‘rear way,’ too.”

“Huh?”

“Yes. You see, it doesn’t have just one flap. It has two.”

“Two?”

“Of course. The one that’s so tightly sealed was what we paid all our attention to. A bit like a magician waving one hand wildly to attract his audience’s attention while he palms a coin with the other.

“But at the other end of the envelope is another, smaller flap. Oh, it’s glued shut, but otherwise unprotected. And with the application of a little water or steam the glue loosens quite easily. Anything can then be removed through the ‘back door’.” Mr. Strang looked sternly at Ralph Milleridge. “And anything else inserted. When the small flap’s glued shut again, there’s no evidence of tampering. Especially if you go over the flap with a hot iron, as I did down in the home economics room.”

“Well, I’ll be—”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Ralph Milleridge rose to his feet. “Okay, Mr. Strang, it could have been done that way. But that isn’t saying it was what happened. I mean, how could I have gotten a look at Artie’s paper in the first place?”

“Simple. He was at your house, wasn’t he? With his books in the living room while he ate a cupcake in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, for maybe five minutes. But I didn’t have time to copy—”

“Oh, stop it, Ralph! You talk about copying as if you were one of the ancient scriveners, writing everything down in longhand. Yet you yourself spoke of your father’s home office. With an ultramodern typewriter, and even a computer.”

“Yeah, but the typewriter and the computer couldn’t—”

“Surely, Ralph, such a place would also have some kind of copying apparatus.”

The look on Ralph Milleridge’s face told Mr. Strang that his shot had struck home. He pressed the advantage.

“In five minutes with such a machine you could have copied fifty to a hundred pages. A mere fourteen would have been nothing. Afterward, your leaving your books at Arthur’s overnight could have been an accident. On the other hand, it might have been a deliberate attempt to throw suspicion on him by giving him ample time to copy your non-existent paper.”

“You — you—” Arthur Osgood glared at Ralph, furious. He started to rise, but Guthrey urged him back into his chair.

“I’ve seen it happen before,” Mr. Strang told Ralph. “A student lets the days turn into weeks and then months with no work done on a major project. Suddenly it’s spring and there are all sorts of interesting things to be done. Yet the research paper looms large. With only a month or so to go, you had to come up with something. So you mailed the envelope three weeks ago with blank sheets in it and then just sat back and waited your chance to get at Arthur’s paper. A little talk around school about the imaginary ‘work’ you were doing on your paper would be enough to impress everyone with your studious ways.”

Ralph Milleridge was shaken but still not ready to admit to Mr. Strang’s charges. “You can’t prove anything,” he whispered.

“Unfortunately, I can, Ralph,” the teacher replied. “There are two things you overlooked. Understandable in something as complicated as this.

“First, there’s the matter of the references you supposedly used. I checked ’em out in the school library. There are seven books in your bibliography. Of those you checked out three last month, according to the book cards. Getting your story in proper form, were you?”

“No, I—”

“The other four were dated just a week ago today — weeks after you’d supposedly completed your paper. And one day after you’d had a chance to copy Arthur’s work. The inference is clear — you’d seen Arthur’s bibliography and you wanted to look at those books in case anybody questioned you about your paper.”

The effect on Ralph Milleridge was shattering. The large boy seemed to shrink visibly. “I–I had to do something,” he almost sobbed. “My folks would have killed me. What am I going to do, Mr. Strang? What am I going to do?”

Mr. Strang walked behind Ralph’s chair and patted the boy gently on the shoulder. “Come and see me tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll talk about it. Maybe we can work something out.”

Later, when the two boys had left the office, Guthrey gazed at Mr. Strang with an awed expression. “Leonard?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Guthrey?”

“You said there were two things Ralph had overlooked in his plan. One was the library books. But what was the second?”

“I was saving that in case he still maintained his innocence.” Mr. Strang shook his head sadly. “But heaven help me, I broke him. Is the second thing really important now?”

“No, I suppose not. Just curiosity on my part.”

“It was the weight of the envelope,” said Mr. Strang. “Ralph had to send the envelope through the mail before he’d seen Arthur’s paper. So he put in too many blank sheets. First class mail, fifty-four cents — that’s one fifteen-cent stamp and three thirteens — four ounces. But the fourteen pages of the research paper, plus the envelope, came to only something over two ounces, so Ralph should only have had to pay for three — forty-one cents. I checked the weight of the paper this morning. Dewey Langdon weighed it for me.”

“That’s rather weak, Leonard,” chided Guthrey. “Mr. Langdon could have made a mistake.”

Mr. Strang shook his head. “Not Dewey. Even as a student he was meticulous. Of all the kids I’ve taught over the years he’s one of the few I could trust never to make an error like that. Especially where money was involved.”

The teacher jammed his felt hat onto his head. “I really can’t take much pleasure in what I’ve done today,” he said. “Ralph Milleridge’s scheme had to be exposed, of course. But to do it I had to break the boy in the same way a fine wild horse is broken to the saddle. I just hope Ralph’s got enough backbone in him to put the pieces back together again.

“I have a bitter taste in my mouth right now, Mr. Guthrey. Perhaps a good stiff brandy will remove it. And you’re buying.”