"Where is the letter I gave you last night?" she curtly demanded, her tone very sharp.
"Why, ma'am, what's the use of asking me?" returned the undaunted Lizzy, after a faint pause. "Mr. Edwin Barley's people must know more about that."
"The letter you delivered was not my letter."
"Not your letter!" repeated Lizzy Dene, evidently affecting the most genuine surprise. "I don't know what you mean, ma'am."
"The letter you left at Mr. Edwin Barley's, instead of being the one I handed to you, was some rubbishing circular of the fashions. How dared you do such a thing?"
"My goodness me!" exclaimed Lizzy. "To think of that! But, Mrs. Penn, it's not possible."
"Don't talk to me about its not being possible! You have been wilfully careless. I must have my letter produced."
"I declare to goodness I don't know where it is, or what has become of it, if—as you say, ma'am, it was not the one I gave in to the young man," spoke Lizzy, this time with real earnestness. I had a letter of fashions in my basket; but it's odd I could make such a mistake!
"You did make it," Mrs. Penn angrily rejoined. "Where is the letter now?"
"Ma'am, I can't imagine. It must have been spirited away."