“Prove it?”
“Yes. You see, the burden of proof must be on you.”
“But—but don’t you believe me?” she murmured.
“Does it matter what I believe?” he asked her gently. “Remember, this man has entrusted me with a manuscript that he says is original. At least it is written in his own hand. I cannot go back of that unless you have some means of proof that his story is your story. Who did you tell about your plot, and how you worked it out? Did you read the finished manuscript—or any part of it—to any person who can corroborate your statements?”
“Oh, Mr. Hammond!” she cried, with sudden anguish in her voice. “Not a soul! Never to a single, solitary person. The girls, nor Aunt Alvirah, nor Tom——”
She broke down again and he could not soothe her. She wept with abandon, and Mr. Hammond was really anxious for her. He went to the door, whistled for one of the boys, and sent for Mrs. Paisley.
But Ruth recovered her composure—to a degree, at least—before the motherly old actress came.
“Don’t tell anybody! Don’t tell anybody!” she sobbed to Mr. Hammond. “They will think I am crazy! I haven’t a word of proof. Only my word——”
“Against his,” said the manager gravely. “I would accept your word, Miss Ruth, against the world! But we must have some proof before we deliberately accuse this old man of robbing you.”
“Yes, yes. I see. I will be patient—if I can.”