Cynthia began to enlarge on the statement, but Madame stopped her.
“I have not time now to investigate this unhappy affair,” she said. “Indeed, it is something which will probably require the assistance of a detective. Do not look so alarmed,” she added to Milly; “I happen to be acquainted with a gentleman—in fact, he is my lawyer—who has all the qualifications of a very clever detective. I will write, asking him to call, and to take charge of the case. He will keep it all very quiet. I am glad that you have come to me first of all, and I particularly request that you mention the fact of the robbery to no one.”
With this she dismissed us, and we went to breakfast a little late, feeling very important in the possession of a mystery. Winnie was the only one whom this mystery did not seem to elate. Cynthia, who sat beside me at table, was overflowing with glee.
“It is better than the most exciting story which Winnie ever told us,” she whispered to me. “Won’t it be fun to follow the unravelling of the crime. Of course the detective will be led off by false clues, and all that sort of thing, and the real thief will suffer all the torture of alternate fear of detection and hope of escape; but the toils will close gradually about the doomed individual. I shall not disclose my suspicions till toward the last. Oh! what fun it will be to watch the development of the drama. I should think, Tib, that you would write it up.”
“Your suspicions?” I repeated. “Do you really suspect any one?”
“Why, yes; don’t you?”
“No indeed!”
“Then all I’ve got to say is that you are a lamb. You think every one as innocent as yourself. Because you have the innocence of a lamb, you have a corresponding muttony intelligence.”
I was very indignant, but I did not show it. “Whom do you suspect?” I asked.
“That’s telling,” she replied, “and I said that I would not tell at this stage of the game.”