“Yes,” he said, with a gust of relief; “did you think it was thieves?”
“Isn’t it?” she demanded, pointing to the broken window visible through the blind. Then she saw his revolver, and drew back an inch.
“He took this from me,” said Pocket. “I had a right to it. Take it if you will!”
And he offered it, in the best romantic manner, by the barrel. But Phillida was too angry to look at revolvers.
“You had no business to break in to get it,” she told him, with considerable severity.
“I didn’t! I broke in for my clothes; he took them, too, this morning before he went out. They’re what I broke in for, and I’d a perfect right; you know I had! And while I’m about it I thought I might as well have this thing too. I knew it was in here somewhere. It was in there. And I’m glad I got it, and so should you be, because you and I are in the house of one of the greatest villains alive!”
The words tumbled over each other with quite hereditary heat. They were all out in a few seconds, and the boy left panting with his indignation, the girl’s eyes flashing hers.
“I begin to think my uncle was right,” said she. “This is the act of what he said you were, if anything could be.”
“He lied to you, and he’s been lying to me!”
“He may have been justified.”