At this unfortunate juncture, Martin Moreland entered the room. Instantly, he sensed the tense situation and began asking questions. Edith reached out her hands to him and began to cry. Immediately, he rushed to Mahala, seized her roughly by the arm, and cried: “You’ll stay right here, my lady, till you’re searched from head to heels. You’ll not leave this house till that pocket book is discovered. It was crammed as full as it would hold with money for this journey.” Edith immediately chimed in to explain that Junior had said that the purse contained a large amount of money when she had told him to put it with her coat. She had not been sitting where she could see in the other room, but there had been no sound, no one had opened or closed a door, no one had entered the parlour or passed down the hall. The pocket book must be in the room. During the ensuing discussion, Junior came hurrying in to tell them that time was flying and that they had none to waste. His father and mother and Edith joined in excitedly explaining the situation to him. Instantly, he went to Mahala, put his arm across her shoulders, and said to her in a voice filled with pity: “My poor little schoolmate, have death and misfortune driven you to this? If you needed money so badly, why didn’t you ask me? You know I would gladly have given it to you.” Mahala sprang away from him, staring at him with tense, wide eyes. Mr. Moreland straightened up. “Junior,” he said sharply, “we haven’t time for any nonsense of that sort! Get yourself down town by the shortest cut and bring a policeman to search her.” At this Mahala lifted her head. She said to Mr. Moreland: “No officer shall touch me. If it is your wish that I be searched, you may leave the room and Mrs. Moreland may satisfy herself and Edith that neither the pocket book nor the money is on my person.” At this juncture Edith began to gasp for breath; then she collapsed on the sofa, declaring that she was dying. Mrs. Moreland spoke authoritatively for the first time: “No one is going to lay a finger on Mahala Spellman in this house,” she said. “Every one of you very well knows that she’s quite incapable of touching anything that doesn’t belong to her. If she says she did not touch that pocket book, she didn’t!” Then she turned to Mahala and said to her: “Put on your hat, child, take your workbag, and go home.” “Thank you, Mrs. Moreland,” said Mahala, and she started toward the door. The elder Moreland stepped in front of her. He had worked himself into a rage. He declared that she should not leave the house carrying three thousand dollars with her. Junior agreed with him. He said to his father: “This breaks my heart. What a dreadful thing that the loss of her money should have so undermined the principles of such a girl as we always have supposed Mahala to be!”