"I'll go to him at once and get it," said Elma, preparing to run down the steps.
Carrie caught her by the arm.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, "but it's no use, he—he says we cannot have it for a week, perhaps a fortnight. He is doing a little deal with it, as he expresses it. He says perhaps we'll have it back doubled."
"What can you mean, Carrie?" Elma knew nothing whatever about speculation. That will-o'-the-wisp which leads so many astray had not yet entered into her life.
"You need not look so miserable. Won't you like to have it back again, not seven pounds but fourteen? and Sam says this will probably be the case in a week or a fortnight, or at any rate in a month from now."
Elma threw up her hand in despair.
"If I have to wait a month for the money," she said, "I may as well never have it. Oh Carrie, what have you done? You have ruined me, ruined me! Carrie, I cannot lead a low, common life like yours; I am not fit for it. Oh, Aunt Charlotte will never do anything more for me after this. Kitty wants the money, and I cannot give it to her. Oh, Carrie, to think that you should have ruined my life!"
Poor Elma covered her face with her trembling hands and went into the house. She entered the shabby little sitting-room and sank into the nearest chair. Carrie stood near her in real perplexity and agitation.
"What a pity you didn't confide in me when you brought it home," she said. "Of course I didn't really want to do you an ill turn, Elma; but you were so sly and secretive, and—and I thought I would have my joke. You don't know how precious dull my life is; and when I saw that letter and felt that you were keeping a nice little hoard of money, all private and without the knowledge of your sister, it was just too much for me, and I took it to Sam because I didn't know where to hide it safe in this house."
"The thing that matters," said Elma, "is the fact that I cannot get it back. But I must get it; I must see Sam Raynes at once."