“Who knew that Mrs. Ritchie’s box was in the cupboard, and that there was a good deal of money in it?” she demanded.
“What’s up, Phoebe?” he asked.
“I’m trying to sift this thing on my own account, and in secret, Toby,” she replied. “I want you to help me—just as if I were Sherlock Holmes or Monsieur Lecoq. Don’t ask questions; just answer them. Who knew?”
“I knew,” said Toby, with a grin.
“But I’m going to leave you out of it,” she replied. “This is an investigation to prove your innocence, so I don’t want any evidence against you.”
“You can’t do it, Phoebe,” said the boy. “Don’t bother about me; I’m not worth it. Let Holbrook do as he pleases.”
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“He isn’t very anxious to clear me,” said Toby, looking at her with a queer expression. “I don’t know why; I only know that if I were a lawyer and had such a case I’d stir things up and find out the truth.”
“I think you would,” replied the girl. “It’s because Mr. Holbrook is so inactive that I’ve determined to take up the investigation myself.”
“It’s nice of you, Phoebe; but, say—a girl can’t do much. There’s something queer about the whole affair. I know something of law and also I ought to be able to guess who took the box; but it’s entirely beyond me. I can’t investigate it myself, and so—”