At that instant Cynthia entered, flushed, and as it seemed to me triumphant. “Mr. Mudge wants to see you, Winnie, in Madame’s private library,” she announced importantly.
“Who is Mr. Mudge?” Winnie asked.
“He is Madame’s lawyer. The keenest, shrewdest man you ever saw, with little gimletty eyes that bore the truth right out of you; and such a cross-questioner! If you have a secret, he knows it the minute he looks at you, and makes you tell it, in spite of yourself, the first time that you open your mouth. You need not try to keep your suspicions to yourself, they will be out before you can say Jack Robinson.”
Winnie gave a little sigh. “And you say he wants to see me?” she asked, rising with a palpable effort.
“Yes, he wants to question us each separately, to see if our testimony agrees, I suppose. He asked Madame, as I went in, if she had kept us apart since the robbery to guard against any—collision—I think that was the word!”
“Collusion,” I corrected.
“No matter; he meant that we might have hatched up a story between us, but Madame assured him that we were all honorable girls and incapable of such a thing.”
“Of course,” he replied, “unless they happen to know or suspect the culprit, and wish to shield her. In such cases, I have known the most religious young persons to lie like a jockey.”
Winnie left the room, throwing me a look of piteous appeal as she did so, which I understood to beg me to find out all I could from Cynthia. I rocked silently for a few moments, to disclaim all eagerness, and then said casually: “I don’t believe you would ever lie to save a friend.” This in a propitiating tone, adding to myself, “you would be much more likely to tell a lie to get one into trouble.”
Cynthia could not hear the thought, and she stretched herself luxuriously on the divan.