"To pay his creditors."
"Pay your grandmother! pay for my necklace. Lydia, I've scared her out of her boots."
"Esther?" Lydia whispered.
Madame Beattie whispered, too, now, and a cross-light played over her eyes.
"Yes. I've searched her room. And she knows it. She thinks I'm searching for the necklace."
"And aren't you?"
"Bless you, no. I shouldn't find it. She's got it safely hid. But when she finds her upper bureau drawer gone over—Esther's very methodical—and the next day her second drawer and the next day the shelves in her closet, why, then—"
"What then?" asked Lydia, breathless.
"Then, my dear, she'll get so nervous she'll put the necklace into a little bag and tell me she is called to New York. And she'll take the bag with her, if she's not prevented."
"What should prevent her? the police?"