"Because I don't believe you know," returned Harold, "You've probably got some suspicion?"
"I have more than that. The person who took the money was seen at his work."
Harold turned pale.
"There is no use in mincing matters," continued Felicie. "You took the money."
"What do you mean by such impertinence?" gasped Harold.
"It is no impertinence. If you doubt my knowledge, I'll tell you the particulars. You opened the drawer with one of a bunch of keys which you took from your pocket, took out a morocco pocketbook, opened it and counted the roll of bills which it contained, then put the pocketbook into your pocket, locked the drawer and left the room."
"That's a fine story," said Harold, forcing himself to speak. "I dare say all this happened, only you were the one who opened the drawer."
"I saw it all through a crack in the half-open door," continued Felicie, not taking the trouble to answer his accusation. "If you want further proof, suppose you feel in your pocket. I presume the pocketbook is there at this moment."
Instinctively Harold put his hand into his pocket, then suddenly withdrew it, as if his fingers were burned, for the pocketbook was there as Felicie had said.
"There is one thing more," said Felicie, as she drew from her pocket a bunch of keys. "I found this bunch of keys in your room this morning."