Had she paid anybody? taken any of the money? given change?
No; she could recollect nothing, and in place of growing clearer, the problem grew momentarily more and more confused.
Her brow became full of wrinkles, her head more giddy, and as she crouched upon the floor with the empty money-box upon the bed, and the candle that stood upon the table surrounded by the empty wrappers, long of snuff and mushroom topped, she began more and more to realise the fact that at last she was face to face with a difficulty far greater than any that she had yet been called upon to deal with since she had been at Plumton.
It was horrible. She had to give up a heavy amount on the next day—a sum that she held in trust—and it was missing.
What should she do? What could she do?
She could have sobbed in the agony of her heart; but she forced herself to think—to try and make out where the money had gone.
The children would not have taken it; they did not know of its existence. Then who could?
Percy?
Oh no, it was impossible. He had—
Oh no; she would not harbour the thought. He had been weak and foolish, but she felt that she should scorn herself if she harboured such a thought as that her brother would have taken the money that she had in charge. It was too dreadful, and she would not believe it.