Poor Maggie's face was a study. Perplexity, despair, indignation swept over it in a sort of terror.
"Miss Helma, you're cruel to talk to me like that," she cried. "Me touch your money! No, that I didn't. Oh, miss, is it the money Miss Malone come about? Is it gone?"
A wild hope flashed through Elma's brain, to be discarded the next moment. Could Kitty have come to the house and visited her room and taken away her own money herself?
"What do you mean about Miss Malone?" she cried.
"She come here miss. Oh, Miss Helma, don't look at me so scornfully. She came here yesterday and asked for you and when I told her you was out she writ a letter, and said you was to have it the moment you come in, and that it was as important as the Bank of England. Yes, that she did—and she laid it on the blotter in the dining-room. She was the prettiest young lady I ever set eyes on, and she took them violets out of her cap and give them to me. She was in an awful way, and said she wanted to see you on a most important matter. I don't know what she wrote in the letter; but it may have been about the money, miss."
"Of course it was about the money," said Elma, who felt more and more uncomfortable each moment; "but where is the letter, Maggie? Why did I not get it?"
"You ask Miss Carrie that, miss. She come in, and—. Oh, but I mustn't tell any more."
"But you must and shall," said Elma. She took hold of Maggie fiercely by her arm, dragged her forward to the light, and looked her full in the eyes. "Now, tell me every single thing you know, or I'll summon the police this moment," she said.
Thus adjured, Maggie fell on her knees and made an ample confession.