“Don’t lie, Harry! How did you get it if you didn’t steal it out of my safe?”
“It was given to me.”
“By whom?” Miss Grant looked scornful: she couldn’t believe any such foolish statement.
The young man hesitated. “I don’t think I ought to tell that,” he replied.
“Oh yes, you ought! And you have to, or I’ll have you arrested,” threatened his aunt.
“Tell the truth, dear,” urged his mother. “Whoever stole that money deserves to suffer for it.”
“All right—I will! It was Corinne—my niece, Corinne Pearson. She took it. Eight hundred and fifty dollars in bills. She gave me eight hundred dollars—half of it to spend for her, and half for myself. I was to buy a certain evening gown and cloak in a shop in New York with which she had been corresponding. With my four hundred I was going to get a new car and drive back to Riverside and announce that I had a present for Corinne, because I was sorry for her about the party, and because I had put a good sale through. That’s all.... It simply didn’t work.”
“Corinne!” repeated Miss Grant. “I’m not surprised. I always did suspect her.... And has she the other fifty dollars?”
“Yes, I believe she kept that for slippers and the beauty parlor,” answered Harry.
Miss Grant got up from her chair.