Apparently the inspector did mind, for he jerked the lump of camphor unwrapped into the trunk, and made a vicious scoop among the layers of neatly packed clothing. “Is this a present, then?” he asked, drawing to light a flat oblong white box, and snapping the cord that bound it. Inside, resting on pink cotton wool, was a small silver-backed hand-mirror of fine workmanship. “Surely this must be a present?” he repeated, with the triumphant air of one who has dragged a secret crime to justice. Maisie’s mother looked nervous, and fidgeted visibly, but Maisie herself was imperturbable. “You are mistaken; it is not,” she said, without a tremor. The man glanced at her sharply, and shrugged his shoulders. “You keep it very nicely put away for an article in use,” he hinted, turning over the box once or twice with manifest doubt and reluctance. “And these—are all these your own, too?” unearthing from some secret receptacle six little card-cases of blue leather, and spreading them out jeeringly in a row. “I told you not to get so many, Maisie, but you would do it,” said her mother, in the hopeless tone of a convicted criminal. “They were such bargains, I couldn’t resist them,” answered the girl sorrowfully. “Yes, they are presents; at least five of them are. I guess I will keep one for myself, and save that, any way. Just put one of them back, please. And oh, dear! do you have to lift out that heavy tray? There are nothing but clothes at the bottom of the trunk.” “Nothing at all but clothes,” interposed her mother peevishly. “I don’t see why you have to go through everything in this fashion.” “Nothing at all but clothes,” repeated cousin Jim, who had hitherto stood staring silently at the confusion before him. “Can’t you take the ladies’ word for it, when they assure you there is nothing underneath but clothes?” “My dear sir,” said the inspector, exasperated into insolence, “I should be very glad to take any lady’s word, but I can’t. I’ve learned a great deal better.” Maisie’s mother colored hotly, with the righteous indignation of a woman who lies easily, and is accused of falsehood; but Maisie, screwing her pretty head on one side, winked at me in shameless enjoyment of the situation. “He’ll find I’m right this time,” she whispered; “but wasn’t it lucky he got it into his stupid brain that the glass must be a present! If he had said ‘commission’ now, I should have been caught, and the friend I bought it for would be simply furious if I had to pay duty on it. Poor mother insisted that I should not take a single commission this summer, so I only have very few; just that glass, and some gloves, of course, and a feather collar, and half a dozen pairs of stockings, and a little silk shawl from Rome. One girl did ask me to buy her a dress in Paris, but I wouldn’t do it; and another wanted a pair of blue slippers, but fortunately I forgot her size; and another—”