Jim looked at me.
“She must mean Betty,” I explained. “She has gone to bed, I think.”
“Don’t—let—her—in—this—room—again,” she said, with awful emphasis. “She is an infamous creature.”
“Oh, come now, Aunt Selina,” Jim broke in; “she’s foolish, perhaps, but she’s a nice little thing.”
Aunt Selina’s face was a curious study. Then she raised herself on her elbow, and, taking a flat chamois-skin bag from under her pillow, held it out.
“My cameo breastpin,” she said solemnly; “my cuff-buttons with gold rims and storks painted on china in the middle; my watch, that has put me to bed and got me up for forty years, and my money—five hundred and ten dollars and forty cents!—taken with the doors locked under my nose.” Which was ambiguous, but forcible.
“But, good gracious, Miss Car—Aunt Selina!” I exclaimed, “you don’t think Betty Mercer took those things?”
“No,” she said grimly; “I think I probably got up in my sleep and lighted the fire with them, or sent em out for a walk.” Then she stuffed the bag away and sat up resolutely in bed.
“Have you made up?” she demanded, looking from one to the other of us. “Bella, don’t tell me you still persist in that nonsense.”
“What nonsense?” I asked, getting ready to run.