Winnie came to the table late and passed me a note, which I read beneath my napkin.
“Mr. Mudge wants to question you next. You are to meet him in Madame’s parlor immediately after luncheon. Hurry and finish, so that I can have a minute with you before you see him.”
I bolted my dinner, and Winnie sat silently staring before her, eating nothing. We left the dining-room five minutes before the conclusion of the meal, bowing as we passed Madame’s table, as was our custom when we wished to be excused before the others. Madame’s attention was absorbed by the teacher with whom she was conversing, and we passed out unhindered.
“What did you find out from Cynthia?” Winnie asked, as we walked toward the Amen Corner. “Does she suspect any one?”
“Yes,” I replied. “She is perfectly absurd. It is just as you said; she insists on fastening the crime on a perfectly innocent person.”
Winnie drew in her breath. “One of us, I presume?”
“Yes, Winnie dear. But,” I hastened to add, for she grew suddenly deadly pale, “she can do no harm; her suspicions are too manifestly impossible.”
“I don’t know,” Winnie chattered; “the reputation of many an innocent person has been blasted by mere circumstantial evidence. What does Cynthia know? What has she told?”
“That she saw you go to the safe in the night.”
“Me? Then I am the one whom she suspects, and not—you are sure she saw no one else?” Winnie laughed a long, joyous laugh. “I can stand it, Tib,” she said, “I can stand it. It’s too good a joke.”