“Peter, ye can go for your dinner now.” He waited until he heard a door open and close, then wheeled and said to his sister—“She’s five pound short.” Miss Corrie threw up her hands. “Yes,” said Kitty quietly, “I’m five pounds short.” The woman was about to speak, but her brother motioned her to hold her tongue. “I want to know where that five-pound note is. . . . Do ye hear me, girl?” She paid not the slightest attention. “See here, Rachel,” he said, somewhat wildly, “she admits she got twenty-seven pound from Torrance this morning. She had the key o’ the drawer all the time I was here my lone. As you and the boy can swear I never passed to the house. When I checked the cash in her presence, I found her five pound short. . . . And she won’t say what’s become o’ it.” “Tell him,” cried Miss Corrie. “Speak!” “What’s the use?” said the girl, and there was a pause. “Were ye up the stair at your dinner-time?” he demanded. No answer. “Ay; I heard her,” said her aunt. “Then it’s my duty to—to make a search,” he said in a thick voice. “Get the police,” said Kitty. “They’re honest.” He all but lost control then. “Up to your room!” he roared. “Rachel, you maun come likewise.” Kitty turned and led the way. She felt that this was only the beginning of the ghastly farce, nothing could possibly be found in her room unless her uncle contrived to put it there while he was pretending to search, and she would see to it that he was not allowed to manage that! “If it’s no in there,” said Corrie, as they reached the small landing, “your aunt’ll ha’ to search your person. Go inside the two o’ ye. I’ll bide here. Rachel, you make search.” Kitty began to feel puzzled in a dull, dreary fashion. Her uncle could play no tricks from where he stood. Why should he make such a long business of the matter? He had failed to terrify her, and— “Where’ll I search?” wailed Miss Corrie. “Every place. It’s got to be found,” replied her brother. “It’s Government money.” “It’ll take a long, long time. Would ye no give her another chance to—to speak?” “She’s had her chance. Hurry up!” It was no doubt natural that Miss Corrie should start with the chest of drawers that served also for a dressing table, placed at an angle with the window and near it. She drew out the right-hand top drawer. “Turn it out on the floor,” he ordered. Kitty sat down on the bed and apathetically watched the scattering of her poor little fineries, gloves, ribbons, fancy buttons, and so on. “It’s no’ there, anyway,” remarked Rachel, rising at last. She opened the neighbour drawer, and Kitty winced, for it held her father’s manuscripts. “Oh!” gasped Rachel, and stood petrified. “Hurry up!” called her brother, and she started. “It—it’s here,” she whispered, and held it up. Corrie strode in, snatched it and held it close to his niece’s face. Kitty was white as death now. What dumb innocence, what loud defence, could stand against this?