"I don't know. I generally put them in my pocket. But if I did leave them about, nobody would use them. Our servants are honest."
The book, however, could not be found. Mr. Chandos looked for it, I looked, the servants looked. He said, in a joking sort of manner, that some sleight-of-hand must have been at work; and sat down to write a letter. I saw its address: London, Henry Amos, M.D.
While making tea for Mr. Chandos in the evening, a discussion arose about the date of Emily's last letter, and I ran to my room to get it. Just within the door I encountered Lizzy Dene, darting out with a haste that nearly knocked me down.
"What did you want in my room, Lizzy?"
She murmured some incoherent answer about taking the housemaid's place that evening. A lame excuse. All work connected with the chambers had to be done by daylight; it was a rule of the house. I had had doubts, vague and indefinable, of Lizzy Dene for some days—that the girl was not altogether what she seemed. She looked red and confused now.
Emily's letter was not to be found. And yet I knew that I had tied it up with two or three others and left the packet in a certain compartment of my smaller trunk. Both boxes looked as though they had been searched over, for the things were not as I placed them. But I missed nothing, except the letters. Lizzy was in the gallery now, peering out at the window close by I called to her to come in, and bade her shut the door.
"Boxes opened! Letters gone!" she retorted, in a passionate tone—though I had only mentioned the fact. "I have never laid a finger on anything belonging to you, Miss. It's come to a pretty pass if I am to be suspected of that."
"Will you tell me what you were doing in my room, Lizzy?"
"No I wont!" Doggedly.
"I insist upon knowing: or I shall call Mrs. Hill."