"What--do--you--mean?" he stammered, with a face that had suddenly grown
whiter than her own.

"I mean that it's a DECOY, checked at Heavy Tree Crossing, and that Mr.
Home, of San Francisco, is now waiting at my office to know if you have
taken it!"

The laugh and lie that he had at first tried to summon to mouth and lips
never reached them. For, under the spell of her rigid, truthful face, he
turned almost mechanically to his desk, and took out a package.

"Good God! you've opened it already!" she cried, pointing to the broken
seal.

The expression on her face, more than anything she had said, convinced
him that she knew all. He stammered under the new alarm that her
despairing tone suggested. "Yes!--I was owing some bills--the collector
was waiting here for the money, and I took something from the packet.
But I was going to make it up by next mail--I swear it."

"How much have you taken?"

"Only a trifle. I"--

"How much?"

"A hundred dollars!"

She dragged the money she had brought from Laurel Run from her pocket,
and counting out the sum, replaced it in the open package. He ran