"Ah, that's the dreadful part. I don't know. She went out of the house with your money. She evidently never took it to you. I am sure I cannot think what has happened to her."
"And my money is gone?" said Kitty.
"So it seems—that is, unless we can find Elma. It is all very dreadful, very horrible. I suppose the plain English of the matter is this"—here Carrie gulped something down in her throat—"that she—she stole your money and has run away with it."
"Carrie, you cannot think so!"
"It is what I have to think," answered Carrie. "It is a mighty unpalatable truth, I can tell you. I suppose, now, your next step will be to prosecute her to send the police after her, and have her locked up. Then you will ruin me too, for Sam Raynes—not that he is overparticular, nor that he cares twopence about refinement, or anything of that sort—would not care to marry a girl whose—whose sister was put in prison. That's your next step isn't it, Kitty Malone?"
"I won't stop to listen to you," said Kitty; "you are too terrible."
She ran to the door, opened it, and the next moment found herself in the street. She walked fast, ugly words repeating themselves in her ears. Carrie had been very blunt, and had given the petted, half-spoiled girl some home truths to think about. Had she really been unkind in telling about Elma? Oh, what was right and what was wrong? What was the matter? Could she ever, ever, in the whole course of her existence, have a light heart again? She walked up the street, little caring what she was doing or where she was going. At the next corner she came plump upon Elma herself, who was coming slowly, very slowly in the direction of Constantine Road. When she saw her, poor Kitty gave a sudden shout.
"Oh, Elma!" she said, "how glad I am—how glad I am!"
"What do you mean?" said Elma. Her voice was faint.
"I thought I might never see you again. I thought—I don't know what I thought—but you have come back."