"Did you know, Michael," she began, spreading out the paper on the table, "that this paper says that Charles has stolen a large amount of money and run away?" Instead of answering, he bent over the paper. His kindly eyes took in the head-lines at a glance and he looked up, slowly shaking his head. "Yes, yes, I see it is here," he answered. "I was afraid something would be said. I was afraid last night that something was wrong, but I don't believe he took any money. I don't! I never will believe it." Celeste stepped to him. He was merely a servant, but she put an eager hand on his arm and looked into his face steadily. "I don't believe it, either, Michael," she said, huskily. "I'll never believe it. He's gone--he's gone, but something else was at the bottom of it. It may have been like this--don't you see? Don't you see my idea? I know that he was thoroughly disgusted over his dissipation--over what they say happened at the police station and his club; he made up his mind that perhaps he was a burden on us and determined that he would go away. And it just happens, you see, that the money was missing and they all connect him with the loss because he is gone?" "It does look like that, madam," Michael said almost eagerly. "But, Michael, Michael, what do you think of _this_?" and she pointed to a paragraph in the paper. "Here is what they say was in the note you handed Mr. Browne at breakfast. See! See! Look! Read it!" Michael obeyed stolidly, then he looked up. "I know," he said, "and I think he wrote it. I think so from something he said to me about bank money last night, but still I don't think he is guilty. He didn't look it, madam." "You say he didn't?" Celeste's fine features held an incipient fire which glowed through her thin skin and was focused in her eyes. "No, madam, he was too--I might say, too happy-looking. Oh, I know the difference between the looks of a guilty man and an innocent one! I've run against both brands." "And you say he was happy--happy over leaving us, perhaps never to return? Don't you think that is strange, Michael?" "Yes, madam, that was odd. I must say that I could not make it out. He was jolly, and he was not drinking, either. If I never see him again, I'll never forget how he looked." "I've been to his room," Celeste went on. "He took very few things, but do you remember the last photograph of Ruth that he had, in a silver frame on his bureau? He took that; at least it is missing." "Yes, I saw him put it into his bag," said the servant. "Oh, he thinks a lot of the child!" "And she almost worships him"--Celeste's voice shook at its lowest depths--"and she will never understand his absence. How am I to tell her? What am I to say? She may hear this"--indicating the paper with a gesture of contempt--"from other children. Oh, Michael, to think that her ideal is to be destroyed, and unjustly destroyed, for, as you say, and as I say, our Charlie is not a thief!"