Phoebe turned first white and then red, consumed with shame at being caught prying into the affairs of others. But the constable merely nodded and sat down in a rocker, which thereafter he kept moving in a regular, deliberate manner.
“Evenin’, Phoebe. Lookin’ at the Ritchie box?”
“That can’t be the Ritchie box, Sam,” she replied.
“Why not?”
“The box—the other box—the one they found in Toby’s rubbish-heap—was bent and battered out of shape, and the lock smashed. I saw it myself.”
“M—m. O’ course. So did I. And here’s another Ritchie box in good shape. You’ve seen that, too.”
“I—I was going to read one of the papers, while I waited, and I—I—uncovered the box by accident.”
“It’s all right, little girl. No harm done. But can you tell me which is the real Ritchie box—this or the other?”
“Is one an imitation, Sam?”
“Must be. Judge Ferguson only kept one Ritchie box in his cupboard. Them boxes are kept in stock at the hardware store, an’ the judge bought ’em when he needed ’em. They’re heavy sheet tin, over a steel frame, an’ the locks are the best there is made. The boxes are all black, when they’re new, but for some reason—p’raps so’s to tell it easy—the judge had ’em painted different colors, with the names on ’em. The Ritchie box was blue. I s’pose, Phoebe, it wouldn’t be much of a trick to buy a box, an’ paint it blue, an’ put ‘Ritchie’ on the end of it; would it?”