“Eactly. Now we are coming to it. You took them, and gave them to him?”
“No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen him since that night.”
Curtis Waring regarded the boy thoughtfully. His story was straightforward, and it agreed with the story told by Tim himself. But, on the other hand, he denied taking the missing articles, and yet they had disappeared.
Curtis decided that both he and Tim had lied, and that this story had been concocted between them.
Probably Bolton had the will and the money—the latter he did not care for—and this thought made him uneasy, for he knew that Tim Bolton was an unscrupulous man, and quite capable of injuring him, if he saw the way clear to do so.
“My young friend,” he said, “your story is not even plausible. The articles are missing, and there was no one but yourself and Florence who were in a position to take them. Do you wish me to think that my Cousin Florence robbed the desk?”
“No, sir; I don’t. Florence wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Dodger, warmly.
“Florence. Is that the way you speak of a young lady?”
“She tells me to call her Florence. I used to call her Miss Florence, but she didn’t care for it.”
“It seems you two have become very intimate,” said Curtis, with a sneer.