The quick glance of dismay which passed between mother and daughter was all the answer Bertha needed.
“Humph!” Bertha said. “Thought so. Probably telephoning in to his bookie right now. I’m going to tell you something. If he means anything to you, you’d better get the truth out of him. If he took it, he’s probably still got most of it left.”
Paul Hanberry came into the room just in time to catch the last couple of words. “Who,” he asked, “has got what left?”
“Nothing, dear, nothing,” Eva Hanberry said with such perturbed haste that it was quite obvious she had a guilty desire to change the trend of conversation.
Hanberry’s face flushed. “Listen,” he said, “don’t think you can make me the fall guy in this thing. I’ve known for a long time that I was just a supernumerary. You two women are just too damn sweet for words. Hell, you should have married each other! I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to you, Eva, that when a girl grows up and gets married, she’s supposed to—”
“Paul!” Eva said sharply.
Mrs. Cranning cooed sweetly, “This is neither the time nor the place, Paul, for you and Eva to air any domestic differences.”
Eva Hanberry endeavored to divert attention by making a sudden frantic search of the cupboard. “After all, he might have left it in here,” she said, her words having the expressionless rapidity of the patter employed by a sleight-of-hand performer in attempting to cover up some bit of trickery. “After all, he was in this room a lot, and it’s quite possible that—”
“If you don’t mind,” Milbers said, pushing forward assertively, “I’ll do the looking.”
Bertha paid no attention to him. Her broad, capable shoulders blocked the entrance of the storage space as she started shovelling out the pile of stationery.