“Is it possible!” ejaculated Mrs. Larkspur, in dismay.
“Yes, madam, and what makes matters worse, there can be no doubt but what the money was stolen!”
“Stolen—in my house! Oh, Mr. Gibson, don’t say that!”
“But I do say it!” came loftily from Gabe Flecker. “Would you like to know what proof I have?”
“Yes,” was the apprehensive answer.
“Here, madam, here. Do you see that?”
Gabe Flecker exhibited a small key attached to a piece of black tape.
“That, madam, I found on the carpet, just in front of my trunk. It is undoubtedly the instrument with which the thief unlocked my trunk. In his, or her, haste to retire with the spoils, it was, I presume, accidentally dropped.”
“I hope, Mr. Gibson, you don’t—don’t suspect that anybody living in my house is a—a—thief?”
“Madam,” was the emphatic reply, “I do. Why not? The money has been stolen. Here is this key. It is very plain, to me.”