“Sam Parsons, you know who stole Mrs. Ritchie’s box.”
He looked at her steadily and not a muscle of his face changed expression.
“Think so?”
“I know it. And, unless you save Toby of your own accord, I’ll make you go on the witness stand and confess the whole truth.”
“How can you do that—if I don’t know?” he asked slowly.
“You do know. I’ll tell the judge at the trial how you were caught twice in the hall before Judge Ferguson’s door—once looking through the keyhole; I’ll tell how I found a blue Ritchie box hidden in your home, and how you found another in Toby’s rubbish heap; and the judge will make you explain things.”
The constable gave a low whistle; then he laughed, but not merrily; next he rubbed his chin in a puzzled and thoughtful way while he studied the young girl’s face.
“Phoebe,” said he, “I used to tote you on my back when you were a wee baby. Your mother called me in to see you walk alone, for the first time in your life—it was jus’ two steps, an’ then you tumbled. You used to ride ’round the country with me in my buggy, when I had to serve papers, and we’ve been chums an’ good friends ever since.”
“That’s true, Sam.”
“Am I a decent fellow, Phoebe? Am I as honest as most men, and as good a friend as many?”