Before Freeman had placed Lem on Henrietta's bed, Henrietta had her door closed and locked. She stood with her back to the door, facing Freeman when he turned. She had several things she wanted to say to him. She had not the slightest doubt that he had taken Miss Susan's money and there were other things she wished to talk over with him. Her position was becoming more and more difficult each hour.

What she meant to say she did not know, and neither did she know what she meant to do when all was said. One thing seemed to her particularly monstrous—that Lem should be held guilty for a theft he had not committed—and in her present state of mind she was ready to sacrifice both Freeman and herself to save Lem. Her own life, and Freeman's, seemed already ruined, and as she stood there she was resolved that before Freeman left the room everything must be decided.

Freeman, as he turned, looked at her. He knew by the look on her face and the light in her eyes that she had been driven beyond all patience by this last act of his.

“What do you want?” he asked, moving away from the bed.

“To talk with you,” Henrietta said. “I am through. This is the end, of course.”

“A nice little family chat, I suppose,” he sneered. “Door locked, hubby captured, wifey angry. Act 3, Scene 2. Villain husband lights cigarette.”

He took his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out, knocking it on the back of his hand before he lighted it.

“Wife glares at husband,” he continued, in the same tone. “Husband nonchalantly crosses stage to chair.”

He walked toward the chair that stood by Henrietta's window.

“And exit husband,” he said, raising the wire screen of the window and stepping out upon the tin roof of the porch. Henrietta leaped forward, but only in time to hear the crackling of the tin as Freeman crossed to his own window. She heard his screen clatter down, and the creak of his window as he lowered it, and even the grating of the safety lock as he quite satisfactorily locked himself in.

For a moment Henrietta looked at her window; then she turned to Lem.

“Lem!” she commanded. “Lem, wake up!” The boy did not stir.

“Lem!” she said. “Wake up. I know you are only pretending. Stop this fooling; I want to talk to you.”

But Lem would not waken. She tried other ways, talking to him all the while, tickling the tough soles of his bare feet and opening his eyelids, but he was not to be coaxed or driven out of the pretended fit.

“Very well, then,” Henrietta said, seating herself on the bedside. “I'll talk to you, anyway, for I know you hear me. I know you did not steal Miss Susan's money, but she will never believe that. I know Freeman stole it.”

Lem lay as inert as a corpse. If he heard he gave no sign.

“Listen, Lem,” Henrietta continued. “What I want to tell you is that you must not run away, if you were thinking of running away. That was why I had you brought here, so I could tell you that. You understand, don't you? You must not run away; not to-night, anyway.”

There was still no sign from the boy on the bed. “I 'll tell you why,” Henrietta went on. “If you do, every one will always think you are a thief, and all your life you will have trouble and misery and unhappiness. All your whole life, even if you live to be a hundred. So I want you to promise not to run away to-night. Will you promise that?”

Lem did not answer.

“I wish you would,” pleaded Henrietta. “I'm tired, Lem, and my heart is tired to-night. I want to sleep and see if sleep will bring me any answer to the troubles I can't see my way out of to-night. There may be some way, but I do not see it now, and if you will not promise not to run away I 'll have to go to Miss Susan now and tell her that Freeman stole her money. I want to save you, Lem, but I want to save myself and Freeman, too, if I can, and if I tell Miss Susan the truth it means ruin for me. I will have to go away forever. Will you promise now not to run away?”

She looked at him, but not a muscle of his face quivered. She arose, and drew her robe more closely around her neck, and went to the door. There she gave a last look toward the bed. Lem was sitting straight.

“Aw, gee!” he said. “Don't go an' tell her nothin' like that. Don't you go an' tell her Freeman took her money. Because he didn't take it. I took it.”

“Lem!” Henrietta cried, with a deep breath, while her eyes showed her distress. “Not truly? You don't mean that, Lem?”

“Yes, I did!” he insisted. “I took it. I took it, but I did n't steal it. I took it to get even with her, callin' me a thief an' everything.” Henrietta returned to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, Lem!” she said. “How could you!”

“Well, she was mean to me, so I was mean to her,” he said. “I got a right to get even with her, have n't I? I don't have to let her be mean to me an' not be mean to her, do I?”

“But to steal!” cried Henrietta.

“I didn't either steal!” declared Lem stubbornly. “I just took. I just took her old money an' put it where she would n't get it again, so she'd wish she had n't ever wanted to be mean to me.”

“Where did you put it?” asked Henrietta.

“I won't tell you!”

“You will tell me! You 'll tell me this instant!”

Henrietta had not been a school teacher fot years for nothing. Now, by an instantaneous change, she was all a school teacher—a school teacher able to command rebellious boys for their own good.

“I won't either tell you!” declared Lem.

“Very well!” said Henrietta, and she arose and began to draw on her stockings.

“What you goin' to do?” Lem asked.

“No matter,” she said. “You are going to tell me what you did with that money.”

Lem watched her uneasily. She drew on her shoes with the brisk movements of one who knows exactly what she has planned to do and how she has planned to do it. She drew the shoe-laces taut with little jerks that made the metal tips snap against the shoes.

“Are you going to wale me?” asked Lem.

“No matter. You'll know soon enough.”

“I ain't afraid of being waled,” said Lem. Henrietta was snapping the hooks of her corset now, not looking at Lem. There was a businesslike briskness in the way she snapped hook after hook and reached for her skirt that frightened Lem.

“Well, anyway, you might tell a feller what you're goin' to do to him,” he said uneasily.

“Never mind,” Henrietta said, and jerked the band of the skirt two inches to the left around her waist. She reached for her jacket and thrust her arms into the sleeves, reaching for her hat almost the same instant.

“Well, what do I care who knows where I put the money?” said Lem. “I made her mad, all right. I wa'n't afraid to say where I put it. You don't need to think I'm afraid to.” Henrietta jabbed a pin into her hat and put her hand on the doorknob.

“Where did you put it?” she demanded.

“I put it in her shoe.”

“What shoe?”

“Her shoe in her closet.”

“Her Sunday shoes? The shoes with the cloth tops?”

“Yes, mam.”

“All of it?”

Lem nodded an affirmative.

“Very well,” said Henrietta. “You'll stay here; understand?”

“Yes, mam,” said Lem meekly. “I'll stay.”

“See that you do, if you know what is good for you,” said Henrietta, and she went into the hall, closing the door behind her, but leaving it unlocked. She knew Lem would not try to run away that night.