“Oh, Neale! Will you?”
“Yes. I was coming to call you out anyway,” said the boy, gruffly. “You’re a good kid, Aggie. But Ruth can be too fresh—”
“You don’t know how worried she’s been—how worried we’ve both been,” Agnes said.
“That’s all right. But I’m honest. I wouldn’t have stolen that money.”
“Of course not, Neale,” cried Agnes, but secretly condemned because there had been a time when, for a few hours, she herself had almost doubted the honesty of the white-haired boy.
“But somebody must have seen it in your possession, and come down with you and stolen it.”
“Huh! You think so?”
“How else can you explain it?” demanded the voluble Agnes, the pent up waters of her imagination overflowing now. “Of course it was very dangerous indeed for you to be carrying all that wealth around with you. Why, Neale! you might have been killed for it.
“The—the book was put in that old closet in the dining room chimney. And Aunt Sarah locked the door, not knowing there was anything of importance in the closet but her peppermints. And then we couldn’t unlock it because the lock was fouled.
“And so, we don’t know when the money was taken. But we broke the lock of the closet this afternoon and there it was—the book, I mean—empty!”