“’Believe you’,” said the girl, as one would address an inferior for the purpose of putting him into the category where he belongs. “’Honest work’!  When have you been particular as to that; whether or not”—­with mocking irony in the pitiless violet eyes—­“it was ’honest’?”

Mr. Heatherbloom started; his gaze met hers unwaveringly.  “You don’t think, then, that I—­”

“Think?” said the girl.  “I know.”

“Would you mind—­explaining?” he asked quietly.  He didn’t need any support now, but stood with head well back, a steady gleam in his look.  “What you—­know?”

“I know—­you are a thief!” She spoke the Words fiercely.

His face twitched.  “How do you know?”

“By the kind of evidence I can believe.”

“And that?” he said in the same quiet voice.

“The evidence of my own eyes!”

He was still, as if thinking.  He looked down; then away.

“Why don’t you protest?” she demanded.

“Protest,” he repeated.

“Or ask me to explain further—­”

“Well, explain further,” he said patiently.

“Put your mind back three weeks ago—­at about eleven o’clock in the morning.  Where were you? what were you doing? what was happening?”

Mr. Heatherbloom looked very thoughtful.

“At the corner of”—­she mentioned the streets—­“not far from Riverside Drive.  We passed at that time in the car.  Need I say more?”

His head was downbent.  “I think I understand.”  His hand stroked tentatively his chin.

The silence grew; Beauty barked, but neither seemed to notice.

“Of course you can’t deny?” she observed.

“Of course not,” he said, without moving.

“You won’t defend yourself; plead palliating causes?” ironically.

He picked at the ground with the toe of a shoe.  “If I told you, on my honor, I am not—­what you have called me just now, would you believe me?” he asked gravely.

“On your honor,” said the girl with a cruel smile.  “Yours?  No!”

“Then,” he spoke as if to himself, “I don’t suppose there’s any use in denying.  Your mind is made up.”

“My mind!” she answered.  “Can I not see; hear?  Can you not hear—­those voices?  Do they not follow you?”

He seemed striving for an answer but could not find it.  Once he looked into the violet eyes questioningly, deeply, as if seeking there to read what he should say, but they flashed only the hard rays of diamonds at him, and he turned his head slowly away.

“I see,” she remarked, “you remember; but you do not care.”

“I—­you reconcile the idea of my being that very easily with—­”

“It fits perfectly,” said the girl, “with the rest of the picture; what one has already pieced together; it is just another odd-shaped black bit that goes in snugly.  You appreciate the comparison?”

“I think I do,” answered Mr. Heatherbloom.  “You are alluding to picture puzzles.  Is there anything more?” He started as if to go.