Only too glad to obey this summons, I went directly to the Crawford house, wondering if any new evidence had been brought to light.
Lambert opened the door for me, and ushered me into the library, where Florence was receiving a lady caller.
“Mrs. Cunningham,” said Florence, as I entered, “may I present Mr. Burroughs—Mr. Herbert Burroughs. I sent for you,” she added, turning to me, “because Mrs. Cunningham has an important story to tell, and I thought you ought to hear it at once.”
I bowed politely to the stranger, and awaited her disclosures.
Mrs. Cunningham was a pretty, frivolous-looking woman, with appealing blue eyes, and a manner half-childish, half-apologetic.
I smiled involuntarily to see how nearly her appearance coincided with the picture in my mind, and I greeted her almost as if she were a previous acquaintance.
“I know I've done very wrong,” she began, with a nervous little flutter of her pretty hands; “but I'm ready now to 'fess up, as the children say.”
She looked at me, so sure of an answering smile, that I gave it, and said,
“Let us hear your confession, Mrs. Cunningham; I doubt if it's a very dreadful one.”
“Well, you see,” she went on, “that gold bag is mine.”