Leonie's start almost betrayed her presence there. Evelyn Chandler, then, the heiress and beauty, one of the rulers of New York society, was the thief whom she had come there to apprehend. The thought was horrible to her.
"Will this be the last?" cried Miss Chandler, in a strained voice.
"Not by any means, my dear. You must learn to save more for me out of your dress money. I tell you what I will do. Give me this thousand and I will be easy on you. You can give me a stated amount, so that you can make your arrangements to have it ready at the beginning of each month, and I will make no further demands upon you. Will that do?"
"How much will you want?"
"Well, say three hundred a month!"
"Never! If you keep this up you will make it impossible for me to do anything. I will give you two hundred, and that is the last cent."
"We-ll," grumbled the man hesitatingly, "it is a beggarly amount, considering all you have, but as I don't want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg, I suppose I must yield the point. Now get me the thousand and let me go before we are discovered."
"There is one thing I want to say to you first. Who do you suppose is here in this house?"
"I have not an idea."
"Leonie Cuyler!"