“How do you know you can’t?” Cynthia asked. “You haven’t looked to see whether you have lost anything.”
Milly flushed. “If Tib has lost her money, of course I have mine.”
“Why, of course? The thief has obligingly left Adelaide a part of her money; perhaps yours is all there.”
Milly opened her purse. It was quite empty. She closed it with a snap.
“I don’t see how you knew it,” Cynthia remarked unpleasantly. “Now I am really too curious to see whether I have been as unfortunate as the rest of you.” In spite of this profession of eagerness she had seemed to me remarkably indifferent, and she unlocked her strong box with great deliberation, manifesting no surprise or pleasure as she reported “three dollars and fifty-three cents, precisely what I left there. This shows the wisdom of my double-lock; the thief evidently had no key which would fit my strong-box.”
“Winnie,” I called, “we have had a burglary; come right here and see whether you have lost anything.”
Winnie entered the room slowly, almost unwillingly, quite in contrast with her usual impulsive action, and opened her envelopes before us. “No one has touched my money,” she said; “here is exactly what I placed in the envelopes last night.”
“Did you go to the safe in the night to get that twenty dollar bill which you gave me this morning?” I asked.
Cynthia Vaughn turned and looked at Winnie eagerly.
“I kept it out last night,” Winnie replied, “when I put the rest away. You will remember that I sealed the envelopes then, and I find them now unopened.”