"You can tell between what streets he lives."
"I think it's somewhere between Thirtieth and Fortieth Streets, but my memory isn't good."
"There is no need of making up any more stories, Mrs. Marlow. The purse contained eleven dollars and a half, including the gold piece. You spent a dollar at the grocery store. I want the balance."
"Sure you're very cruel to a poor widow, Rupert Rollins," said Mrs. Marlow, bursting into tears, which she could command when occasion required. "I never was called a thafe before."
As she spoke she drew out her handkerchief, but, unfortunately, there was something entangled with it, and the purse was twitched out and fell on the floor.
Rupert sprang forward and secured it, though Mrs. Marlow tried to put her foot on it.
"This is the purse that was taken from mother," said Rupert. "How came it in your pocket?"
"I don't know," faltered the widow. "I can't account for it."
"I can. Hereafter, Mrs. Marlow, if you ever enter our room again I will send for a policeman."
"It's my own purse!" asserted Mrs. Marlow, deciding to brazen it out.