"Mother, how can I tell what I did?" flashed out the girl, wheeling
round on her heel till she faced them both. "I don't remember doing
a thing to it. I just brought it up. A thing found like that
belongs to the finder. You needn't hold it out towards me like that.
I don't want it now; I'm sick of it. Such a lot of talk about a
paltry thing which couldn't have cost ten dollars." And she wheeled
back.

"It isn't the value." Mr. Gryce could be very patient. "It's the
fact that we believe it to have been answerable for Miss Challoner's
death--that is, if there was any blood on it when you picked it
up."

"Blood!" The girl was facing them again, astonishment struggling
with disgust on her plain but mobile features. "Blood! is that
what you mean. No wonder I hate it. Take it away," she cried.

"Oh, mother, I'll never pick up anything again which doesn't belong
to me! Blood!" she repeated in horror, flinging herself into her
mother's arms.

Mr. Gryce thought he understood the situation. Here was a little
kleptomaniac whose weakness the mother was struggling to hide.
Light was pouring in. He felt his body's weight less on that
miserable foot of his.

"Does that frighten you? Are you so affected by the thought of
blood?"

"Don't ask me. And I put the thing under my pillow! I thought