“But you don’t know for sure,” Agnes retorted. “Maybe you showed Mr. Crouch the wrong bill.”
“No. I’ve felt all the time,” Ruth said despairingly, “that we really had a great fortune in our hands. How it came to be hidden in our garret, I don’t know. Whom it really belongs to I don’t know.”
“Us! We found it!” sobbed Agnes.
“No. We cannot claim it. At least, not until we have searched for the rightful owners. But Mr. Howbridge will tell us.”
“Oh! mercy me, Ruthie Kenway!” cried Agnes. “What’s the use of talking? It’s go-o-one!”
“I don’t know who—”
“You can’t blame Neale now!” flared up Agnes. “You’ve made him mad, too. He’ll never forgive us.”
“Well! What business had he to carry off that book?” demanded Ruth. “He can be mad if he wants to be. If he hadn’t carried it away there would have been no trouble at all.”
“Oh, Ruthie! It isn’t his fault that somebody has stolen it now,” repeated Agnes.
“Why isn’t it?”