I pawed carefully through the bag, and brought to light, not the wrist watch, but the Cloisonné locket, which Mrs. Harper had accused Clarice of taking.
“Why, Ethel,” I said delightedly, “here is your mother’s locket! Clarice didn’t steal it after all. It was down in your bag.”
“I know it was,” said Ethel coolly. “I put it there.”
“You put it there?” I echoed. “Did you find it, then?”
Ethel laughed disagreeably. “I had it all the while,” she said. “I’m going to a dance to-night that mamma doesn’t know anything about, and I’ve set my heart on wearing that locket. Mamma will never let me wear it; it was brought to her from Paris by an old friend that’s dead now, and she’s afraid I’ll lose it. So I just took it out of her jewel box the other day and made her believe Clarice took it.”
“Ethel!” I exclaimed in horror. “How could you? How could you sit there and hear your mother accuse poor Clarice of taking it?”
Ethel shrugged her shoulders. “I never did like Clarice,” she said. “She was an impertinent piece. It served her right. Put the locket back in the bag. I’ve got to start in a minute.”
But I didn’t budge. I stood looking at her until she looked the other way. With all her millions and all her fine connections, I despised Ethel Harper as if she had been a crawling worm. I didn’t want to get mixed up in anything that wasn’t my business, but I had no intention of letting poor Clarice remain under a cloud.
“I’m not going to put it back in the bag,” I replied firmly. “I’m going to take it right back to your mother when she comes home. She must know that it isn’t stolen so she can make things right with Clarice.”
“Don’t you dare tell mamma,” said Ethel furiously. “She’ll kill me if she knows I’ve got it. Give it to me, I say.” She tried to snatch it out of my hand, but I kept hold of it. “Give it to me, you impertinent little stenographer, you!” she shrieked.