“Well, my dear, tell me if you like,” said Miss Bostal, putting a kind hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Shall I?”
Nell’s face was deathlike in its ashy whiteness.
“Why, my child, yes, tell me, of course. Come, come, what is there to get so miserable about? If you really think Jem Stickels did see the thief, and can prove who it is, you ought to be glad, and certainly not let your kindness of heart prevent you from telling him to speak out.”
“But, you don’t know who—who—Jem thinks it was!”
“Ah, you mustn’t trouble your head about that! A thief is a thief, and should be punished. And if it is a person you know, you may be sorry; but you must not shrink from your duty, which is to bring the criminal to justice.”
Nell withdrew herself with a sad smile from the lady’s caressing hand, and shuddered.
“Supposing it were—it were some one you knew—and loved. What would you say?”
Miss Bostal shook her head deprecatingly.
“My dear,” she said, “I can see what it is: Stickels has been threatening to tell the detective that he can prove you to be the thief. And you let yourself be frightened like that! Why, child, you forget that everybody in the place knows he would give the world for a kind word from you; and they will know that he has made up this tale out of revenge for your taking no notice of him! You are a goose, child, a little goose, to let yourself be worried by such a thing as that!”