"I didn't open it—truly I didn't!" exclaimed he, in a terror-stricken voice.
But Mr. Ackerman did not heed the remark.
"I am afraid this looks pretty black for us, Ackerman," said Mr. Tolman slowly. "We have nothing to give you but the boy's word."
Mr. Donovan, however, who had been studying the group with a hawklike scrutiny now sprang to his feet and caught up his hat.
"I don't see how they dared put it over!" he exclaimed excitedly. "But they almost got away with it. Even I was fooled."
"You don't mean to insinuate," Mr. Tolman burst out, "that you think we—"
"Good heavens, no!" replied the detective with his hand on the door knob. "Don't go getting hot under the collar, Mr. Tolman. Nobody is slamming you. I have been pretty stupid about this affair, I'm afraid; but give me credit for recognizing honest people when I see them. No, somebody has tricked you—tricked you all. But the game isn't up yet. If you gentlemen will just wait here—"
The sentence was cut short by the banging of the door. The detective was gone. His departure was followed by an awkward silence.
Mr. Ackerman's face clouded into a frown of disappointment and anxiety; Mr. Tolman paced the floor and puffed viciously at a cigar; and Steve, his heart cold within him, looked from one to the other, chagrin, mortification and terror in his eyes.
"I didn't open the pocketbook, Mr. Ackerman," he reiterated for the twentieth time. "I truly didn't."