“No,” suddenly exclaimed Annie Day, “Miss Peel, you must not leave the room just now. You have made a statement, Miss Oliphant, which I for one do not intend to pass over without at least asking a few questions. You did not tear up that note in a dream. If it is lost, some one took it. We are St. Benet’s girls, and we don’t choose to have this kind of thing said to us. The thief must confess and the note must be returned.” “All right,” said Maggie, “I sha’n’t object to recovering my property. Priscilla, I shall be walking in the grounds; you can come to me when your council of war is over.” The moment Maggie left the room Rosalind Merton made a remark. “Miss Peel is the only person who can explain the mystery,” she said. “What do you mean?” asked Priscilla. “Why, you confess yourself that you were in Miss Oliphant’s room the greater part of the evening.” “I confess it?” remarked Priscilla; “that is a curious phrase to apply to a statement. I confess nothing. I was in Maggie’s room, but what of that? When people confess things,” she added with a naivete which touched one or two of the girls, “they generally have done something wrong. Now, what was there wrong in my sitting in my friend’s room?” “Oh, Miss Oliphant is your friend’?” said Rosalind. “Of course, of course.” But here a memory came over Priscilla; she remembered Maggie’s words the night before— “You _were_ my friend.” For the first time her voice faltered and the crimson flush of distress covered her face. Rosalind’s cruel eyes were fixed on her. “Let me speak now,” interrupted Miss Day. She gave Rosalind a piercing glance which caused her, in her turn, to color violently. “It is just this, Miss Peel,” said Annie Day: “you will excuse my speaking bluntly, but you are placed in a very unpleasant position.” “I? How?” asked Prissie. “Oh, you great baby!” burst from Rosalind again. “Please don’t speak to me in that tone, Miss Merton,” said Priscilla with a new dignity which became her well. “Now, Miss Day, what have you to say?” To Prissie’s surprise, at this juncture, Nancy Banister suddenly left her seat and came and stood at the back of her chair. “I am on your side whatever happens,” she remarked. “Thank you,” said Prissie. “Now, please, Miss Day.” “You must know who took the note,” said Annie Day. “I assure you I don’t; I can’t imagine how it has disappeared. Not a soul came into the room while I was there. I did go away once for about three minutes to fetch my Lexicon; but I don’t suppose any one came into Miss Oliphant’s room during those few minutes— there was no one about to come.” “Oh, you left the room for about three minutes?” “Perhaps three— perhaps not so many. I had left my Lexicon in the library; I went to fetch it.” “Oh,” said Rosalind, suddenly taking the words out of Miss Day’s mouth, “when did you invent this little fiction?”