But Stella had been accustomed to rule in that house. Anything that happened in it was her concern. Besides, she would have ugly things hidden away from her no longer; and here was obviously an ugly thing.
“No, my dears,” she said in her clear voice; “I must stay. Tell me, why is Eliza crying?”
“She's a wicked thief,” said Lady Blount.
Then Stella caught sight of a couple of rings and a brooch and a five-pound note lying on a table.
“Did she steal those?”
Sir Oliver explained. The articles had been stolen during their absence in town. He had applied to the police, with the result that the theft had been traced to Eliza.
So that was a thief—that miserable, broad-faced girl. Stella looked at her with fearful curiosity. She had heard of thieves and conceived them to be desperate outcasts herding in the sunless alleys of great cities, their hideous faces pitted with crime, as with smallpox; she never imagined that they came into sheltered homes.
“What is Mr. Withers going to do with her?”
“Take her to prison,” said Sir Oliver, whereat the culprit wailed louder.
“What is prison?” asked Stella.