All this time Emily Grimshaw had not taken her eyes away from Irene. Now she turned to the others, contrition written in every line of her face.
“I see it all now,” she murmured. “And I’ve been as big a fool as Sarah Glenn for all she was supposed to be crazy.”
“Perhaps it was the fault of that tonic you’ve been taking,” Peter suggested, his eyes twinkling wickedly.
“Piffle!” the old lady snorted. “That’s good stuff, bottled in bond. A wee bit strong, though,” she added, shaking her head, “a wee—bit—strong.”
Emily Grimshaw had her poetry and rose, a little unsteadily, preparing to leave. It was then that she thought of the purpose of her visit.
“Young woman,” she demanded of Irene, “if you’re not Joy Holiday, why did you take those manuscripts?”
“I didn’t take them,” the accused girl answered, regarding her steadily with those starry eyes that had inspired the loveliest line of Golden Girl.
Judy made an almost inaudible sound of protest. Irene couldn’t keep on denying it. No one would believe her now. She touched her arm and whispered, “Tell her, dear. It’s no good pretending. The rest of us have forgiven you and I’m sure she will too.”
Irene’s eyes widened. “Forgiven me? For what, may I ask? Why, I didn’t see that poetry from the moment it was taken until I found it lying on my grandmother’s table.”
“You expect us to believe that, Irene?” This was Peter’s voice, the voice he would some day use in the court room.