It was absurd, but I had a desire to shake the silly little bundle of femininity who told this really important story, with the twitters and simpers of a silly school-girl.
“And you would not have come, if I had not written you?”
She hesitated. “I think I should have come soon, even without your letter.”
“Why, Mrs. Cunningham?”
“Well, I kept it secret as long as I could, but yesterday Jack saw that I had something on my mind. I couldn't fool him any longer.”
“As to your having a mind!” I said to myself, but I made no comment aloud.
“So I told him all about it, and he said I must come at once and tell Miss Lloyd, because, you see, they thought it was her bag all the time.”
“Yes,” I said gravely; “it would have been better if you had come at first, with your story. Have you any one to substantiate it, or any proofs that it is the truth?”
The blue eyes regarded me with an injured expression. Then she brightened again.
“Oh, yes, I can `prove property'; that's what you mean, isn't it? I can tell you which glove finger is ripped, and just how much money is in the bag, and—and here's a handkerchief exactly like the one I carried that night. Jack said if I told you all these things, you'd know it's my bag, and not Miss Lloyd's.”