“At the same time, Mrs. Coolidge.”
“By whom?”
“I decline to answer that question, madam,” came defiantly from the young girl’s compressed lips.
She had been insulted, abused; she would bear nothing more from them.
They—these evil-minded, jealous women—had gone to her room like thieves and hunted among her possessions to satisfy their low-born curiosity, and having found something which they could not clearly understand, they were determined to make use of it to crush her.
Mrs. Coolidge could scarcely restrain her anger at Brownie’s defiance. She was very curious to know the history of those jewels, that attractive picture, and that dancing card with its high-sounding names.
“Am I to understand that you refuse to clear yourself from the suspicion which rests upon you?” she asked, growing white with anger.
“Madam, I question your right to arraign me before you in this manner, as I also question your right to enter my room in my absence, pry into my affairs, and abstract from under lock and key things which belong to me.”
“Whose picture is this?” demanded Mrs. Coolidge, taking up the jeweled locket and looking again upon that noble face.
She ignored entirely Brownie’s indignant protest, although she colored deeply, for she knew that if Miss Douglas owned that box with its contents she and Isabel were the thieves.