"What is it?"
"Get rid of that morocco pocketbook as soon as you can. If it were found on you, or you should be careless, and leave it anywhere, you would give yourself away, my friend."
"You are right, Felicie," said Harold, hurriedly. "Good-morning!"
"Good-morning, and a pleasant walk, my friend," said Felicie, mockingly.
When Harold was fairly out in the street, he groaned in spirit. He had lost half the fruits of his theft, and his secret had become known. Felicie had proved too much for him, and he felt that he hated her.
"I wish I could get mother to discharge her, with out her knowing that it was I who had brought it about. I shall not feel safe as long as she is in the house. Why didn't I have the sense to shut and lock the door? Then she wouldn't have seen me."
Then the thought of the morocco pocketbook occurred to him. He felt that Felicie was right—that it was imprudent to carry it around. He must get rid of it in some way.
He took the money out and put it in another pocket. The pocketbook he replaced till he should have an opportunity of disposing of it.
Hardly had he made these preparations when he met Luke Walton, who had started unusually early, and was walking towards the house. An idea came to Harold.
"Good-morning, Luke!" he said, in an unusually friendly tone.