Corinne shrugged her slim shoulders and opened the screen door. Her mother, a stout woman of perhaps forty-five, was standing in the living room, which opened directly on the porch.
“Why, Aunt Mattie!” she exclaimed. “This is a surprise. You must be feeling better——”
“I’m a lot worse!” interrupted the old lady, sinking into a chair beside the door. “Your daughter’s the cause of it, too!”
“My daughter? How could Corinne be the cause of your bad health, Aunt Mattie? You’re talking foolishly.”
“Don’t speak to me like that, Ellen Grant Pearson! Your daughter Corinne’s a thief—and she stole my money, out of my safe. Night before last, when she went upstairs to get that old lace dress of mine.”
“Impossible!” protested Mrs. Pearson. “You didn’t, did you, Corinne?”
“Certainly not,” replied the girl. “I think Aunt Mattie’s mind is wandering, Mother. Send these girls home, and I’ll call up Uncle John. He’ll come and drive Aunt Mattie back to Dark Cedars.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” announced Miss Grant. “There’s not a thing the matter with my mind—it’s my side and my breathing.” She turned to her two young friends. “Jane, you tell them all about everything that has happened since I was robbed.”
Jane nodded and again related the story, telling of their wild ride in Harry Grant’s car, the capture of the satchel with the bills in it, and concluding with Harry’s confession concerning Corinne’s part in the crime. Mrs. Pearson leaned forward in her chair, listening to the recital with serious attention, but her daughter acted as if she were bored with such nonsense and wandered about the room while Jane was talking, rearranging the flowers on the tables and lighting herself a fresh cigarette.
“It isn’t true, is it, dear?” asked Mrs. Pearson eagerly.