“Oh, confound the things! Small chance of my forgetting them!”
He had barely reached his office the next morning when the telephone bell ran sharply; Aunt Hattie answered his, “Hello!”
“Hello! Henry, is that you?”
“Yes; what is the trouble? Anything wrong up there?”
“No—that is—nothing in particular. Say, Henry, did you take that money last night?”
“Aunt Hattie! Why should you think that I would take your money?” he cried indignantly.
“I thought that perhaps you did it to tease me; can’t you come to the house for a few minutes?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
He had been very busy all the morning, and had not once thought of the combination, but no sooner was he on his way to the house than, with tantalizing pertinacity, it began repeating itself over, again and again. Marjy met him at the door, she had evidently been weeping; he caught her hands: “Why, Marjy, what is the matter? Have you been crying over the loss of that money?” he asked in astonishment.
She raised her eyes to his face, a troubled questioning in their depths, “Did you not take it, Henry?”