The bishop was about to reply when he started in sudden alarm, and, clapping his hand to his coat pocket, exclaimed: "Bless my soul! My purse!"
"Your purse? Why—what?"
The prelate made no answer, but rising quickly, he searched through his garments with grave concern, then, looking at Betty in dismay, he said slowly: "It's gone. I put it in this pocket—you saw me put it there, my dear, and—it's gone."
For some moments neither spoke. Then, by a common impulse, they turned and looked at the stranger whose innocent dark eyes met them with friendly interest and concern.
"I beg your pardon," said the bishop awkwardly. "You haven't by any chance seen a—a purse of mine?"
"A purse," repeated Hester sweetly.
"I may have dropped it," he explained, searching the carriage floor in perplexity. Then he squinted upward at the luggage racks as if expecting to find the purse there.
"You couldn't have dropped it," said Betty. "I saw you put it in your pocket; your inside pocket. It's most extraordinary."
"It's an extremely serious matter," fumed the bishop, and glancing out of the window he saw that they were running into a station.
"I'm sorry," Hester said in a low, sympathetic voice. "Hadn't you better call the guard?"