“No,” he said, shortly. “It doesn’t. It was done from the inside. That’s proved.... Let’s talk about something else, shan’t we?”
But Doris’s curiosity was piqued by his eagerness to sheer away from the theme.
“Tell me,” she insisted.
“Tell you what?” he countered, sullenly.
“Tell me whom you suspect,” returned Doris. “You suspect some one. I know you do. Who is it?”
“I didn’t say I suspected any one,” he made troubled answer. “I’d rather not talk about it at all, if you don’t mind.”
“But I do mind,” she protested. “Why, Clive, all of us have been living here in this corner of the Berkshires every summer since we were born! We’ve all known one another all our lives. It’s—it’s a terrible thing to feel that one of us may be a thief. Won’t you tell me whom you suspect?”
Clive looked glumly down into her appealingly upraised face for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and spoke.
“You’ve asked for it,” said he, speaking between his shut teeth and with growing reluctance. “I’d give ten years’ income not to tell you—and I’d give ten years of my life not to believe it’s he.”
“Who?”