"I wonder if you couldn't tell—if you would? I insist, Mr. Hilliard, that you give me the whole truth, if you know it. And I think you must know."
"I warned you there was a mystery," he mumbled.
"You gave me the impression that it was a police mystery. Now I believe it was of your making. A little while ago you asked me to forgive you. Don't you see I never can, unless you tell the truth about this wretched bag?"
"A little while ago you wouldn't forgive me because I did tell the truth."
She answered like a woman. "That's entirely different." And dimly Nick realized that it would be worse than useless to ask why. Queer how a woman seemed to want only the things you were just out of!
"You—bought this bag," she stated.
"Oh, well, it's no use!" groaned Nick. "Once I thought 'twas a fake about little George Washington; but I see now it can be harder to tell lies than truth to some people. I can't tell one to you," the prisoner in the dock confessed. "I did buy the bag, but when yours is found, they'll send it on to me. Then we can change."
"It will never be found. Oh, how could you?—and the five hundred dollars!—your money. How idiotic of me—and how you must have laughed when I paid you back the four hundred I owed—out of your own pocket."
"I never felt less like laughing in my life than I did then. Unless it's now."
"You can't feel as distressed as you've made me feel. I still owe you the four hundred; and another hundred besides. That makes up the five. And the worst of all is, I can't pay you till Los Angeles. But here is the bag."