When Cynthia had ended, there was a big lump in Joyce's throat, and Cynthia herself coughed and flourished a handkerchief about her face with suspicious ostentation. Suddenly she burst out:
"I think that woman must have had a—a heart of stone, to be so unforgiving to her son—after reading this!"
"She never saw it!" announced Joyce, with a positiveness that made Cynthia stare.
"Well!— I'd like to know how you can say a thing like that!" Cynthia demanded at once. "It lay right there for her to see!"
"How do you account for this room being locked?" parried Joyce, answering the question, Yankee fashion, by asking another. Cynthia pondered a moment.
"I don't account for it! But—why, of course! The boy locked it after him when he went away, and took the key with him!" Joyce regarded her with scorn.
"That would be a sensible thing to do, now, wouldn't it. He writes a note that he is hoping with all his heart that his mother will see. Then he calmly locks the door and walks off with the key! What for?"
"If he didn't do it, who did?" Cynthia defended herself. "Not the servants. They went before he did, probably. There's only one person left—his mother!"
"You've struck it at last. What a good guesser you are!" said Joyce, witheringly. Then she relented. "Yes, she must have done it, Cynthia. She locked the door, and took the key away, or did something with it,—though what on earth for, I can't imagine!"
"But what makes you think she did it before she read the note?" demanded Cynthia.