No answer.
“They call him a thief.”
Through convulsive sobs there came:
“I didn’t steal it.”
“Do not add lying to the rest.” Mr. Cole got up. “Come with me to your room.”
They walked into the hall. Hamlet was waiting, and sprang forward. At once he saw in the sobbing figure of his master trouble and disaster. His head fell, his tail crept between his legs. He slowly followed the procession, only looking at Mr. Cole’s black legs with longing. Upstairs they went, up through the tranquil and happy house. Barbara was being bathed; gurgling and applause and the splash of water came from the bathroom. They were in Jeremy’s room, the door closed—Hamlet on the other side.
Jeremy stood, the tears drying on his face, his sobs coming in convulsive spasms.
“I am determined to know what you have done with this money—on what you have spent it.”
There was no answer.
“It is of no use to be obstinate, Jeremy. Tell me—on what have you spent this money?”