“Allow me to speak, Miss Russell. I can best explain matters. Annie, during my absence some one has been guilty of a very base and wicked act. One of the girls in this school has gone secretly to Dora Russell’s desk, and taken away ten pages of an essay which she had called ‘The River,’ and which she was preparing for the prize competition next month. Instead of Dora’s essay this that you now see was put in its place. Examine it, my dear. Can you tell me anything about it?”
Annie took the manuscript-book, and turned the leaves.
“Is it meant for a parody?” she asked, after a pause; “it sounds ridiculous. No, Mrs Willis, I know nothing whatever about it; some one has imitated Dora’s handwriting. I cannot imagine who is the culprit.”
She threw the manuscript-book with a certain easy carelessness on the table by her side, and glanced up with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes at Dora.
“I suppose it is meant for a clever parody,” she repeated; “at least it is amusing.”
Her manner displeased Mrs Willis, and very nearly maddened poor Dora.
“We have not sent for you, Annie,” said her teacher, “to ask you your opinion of the parody, but to try and get you to throw light on the subject. We must find out, and at once, who has been so wicked as to deliberately injure another girl.”
“But why have you sent for me?” asked Annie, drawing herself up, and speaking with a little shade of haughtiness.
“Because,” said Dora Russell, who could no longer contain her outraged feelings, “because you alone can throw light on it—because you alone in the school are base enough to do anything so mean—because you alone can caricature.”
“Oh, that is it,” said Annie; “you suspect me, then. Do you suspect me, Mrs Willis?”