“It must have been somebody in the house. Suppose we go and see Mrs. Mooney. She may know whether anybody came into our room to-day.”
The two boys went downstairs, and knocked at the door of a little back sitting-room where Mrs. Mooney generally spent her evenings. It was a shabby little room, with a threadbare carpet on the floor, the walls covered with a certain large-figured paper, patches of which had been stripped off here and there, exposing the plaster, the remainder being defaced by dirt and grease. But Mrs. Mooney had one of those comfortable temperaments which are tolerant of dirt, and didn’t mind it in the least. She was seated beside a small pine work-table, industriously engaged in mending stockings.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Mooney,” said Fosdick, politely.
“Good-evening,” said the landlady. “Sit down, if you can find chairs. I’m hard at work as you see, but a poor lone widder can’t afford to be idle.”
“We can’t stop long, Mrs. Mooney, but my friend here has had something taken from his room to-day, and we thought we’d come and see you about it.”
“What is it?” asked the landlady. “You don’t think I’d take anything? If I am poor, it’s an honest name I’ve always had, as all my lodgers can testify.”
“Certainly not, Mrs. Mooney; but there are others in the house that may not be honest. My friend has lost his bank-book. It was safe in the drawer this morning, but to-night it is not to be found.”
“How much money was there in it?” asked Mrs. Mooney.
“Over a hundred dollars,” said Fosdick.
“It was my whole fortun’,” said Dick. “I was goin’ to buy a house next year.”