“I—I think so!” gasped Phœbe.
“Look at the signature.”
Phœbe looked. The paper was signed “Jonathan Eliot” in a crabbed, stiff hand. She could not tell whether it was her grandfather’s writing or not; she was not familiar with it. But, the dreadful truth was forced upon her at last, and Elaine’s scornful assurance was fully explained. She owned the house; she owned that secret hoard. Phœbe had not stolen from her grandfather, as she had supposed, but from Elaine Halliday!
The old woman noted her blanched cheeks and smiled with ruthless joy. Carefully refolding the paper she said:
“I’ve been robbed, and by you. There’s no use denying it, for I’ve got proof in that unlocked door. But I don’t care to send you to prison. I’d rather get my money back.”
“I haven’t it,” murmured Phœbe, staring fearfully into the other’s pitiless face.
Elaine scowled and shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s all nonsense, girl! Give it up,” she advised.
“I can’t; I haven’t it.”
“You’re lying. You took the money yesterday. You can’t have spent it already. Give it up!”