"Little devil! You've hidden it somewhere," and he pushed her from him savagely, glaring at her.
"You—you——" she tried to brave him again, but her words failed her. He had hurt her and shamed her with his rough handling, and, frightened now, she sheltered herself in a woman's last defense, she burst into tears. Whereupon, Anton, man-like, began to weaken. After all, he did not know that she had taken the money from the purse. He had followed her quickly and found her telephoning—telephoning to Henderson. That was another queer thing, but, anyway, it always took him three or four minutes to get Henderson, so she wouldn't have had time to hide the money. Besides, how did she get it? He had watched her like a hawk, even while he was kissing her. And it was true the golf bag had been four days at the club house. Many things may happen to a golf bag in four days.
"Say, kid, don't cry," he relented. "I'm sore about the money, but—maybe you didn't take it."
Hester wept on inconsolable.
"Maybe somebody got away with it at the club house," he continued.
"You—you don't believe anything I say," she sobbed.
"Well, you don't believe anything I say, do you? You think I took the stuff myself, don't you?" he retorted.
This seemed to Hester the moment for a more conciliatory attitude and she agreed, still sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, that it was barely possible someone at the club had stolen the money.
"But there's one thing I want to know, girlie, and I want it straight," the chauffeur insisted. "How did you happen to be telephoning Henderson just now?"
Hester dried her tears and smiled faintly. Now she was the victim of her own mystification. What plausible reason could she invent for telephoning to a man about whom she knew absolutely nothing?