All this time Emily Grimshaw had not taken her eyes away from Irene. Now she turned to the others, contrition written in every line of her face.

“I see it all now,” she murmured. “And I’ve been as big a fool as Sarah Glenn for all she was supposed to be crazy.”

“Perhaps it was the fault of that tonic you’ve been taking,” Peter suggested, his eyes twinkling wickedly.

“Piffle!” the old lady snorted. “That’s good stuff, bottled in bond. A wee bit strong, though,” she added, shaking her head, “a wee—bit—strong.”

Emily Grimshaw had her poetry and rose, a little unsteadily, preparing to leave. It was then that she thought of the purpose of her visit.

“Young woman,” she demanded of Irene, “if you’re not Joy Holiday, why did you take those manuscripts?”

“I didn’t take them,” the accused girl answered, regarding her steadily with those starry eyes that had inspired the loveliest line of Golden Girl.

Judy made an almost inaudible sound of protest. Irene couldn’t keep on denying it. No one would believe her now. She touched her arm and whispered, “Tell her, dear. It’s no good pretending. The rest of us have forgiven you and I’m sure she will too.”

Irene’s eyes widened. “Forgiven me? For what, may I ask? Why, I didn’t see that poetry from the moment it was taken until I found it lying on my grandmother’s table.”

“You expect us to believe that, Irene?” This was Peter’s voice, the voice he would some day use in the court room.

Dale turned on him. “Of course she does. And I do believe it. Sarah Glenn may have taken her own poetry——”

“When she was too sick to move out of her house?”

“Or Jasper Crosby may have sneaked into the office,” Dale went on, disregarding his question. “Irene says she didn’t take the poems and that ends the matter once and forever. If the rest of you want to go on distrusting her it’s none of my affair but I knew all along that Irene was too fine, too wonderful——”

Irene herself stopped him. Her voice was almost a command. “Leave them alone, Dale. Why shouldn’t they suspect me?”

“Because you didn’t do it.”

Irene was silent. She couldn’t say any more because the last she knew of the poems they were in Judy’s hands. It was after all lights were out and they were in bed that she told her.

“You said never to mind the work; you’d straighten things. And then some one took the poetry out of my hands. Wasn’t it you?”

“It certainly wasn’t,” Judy declared. “I had just opened the door for Dale Meredith but he wasn’t there yet.”

“Did you turn your back? Could anyone else have come in?”

“Why,” Judy exclaimed, “I believe they could have—if they had been very quick.”

“Uncle Jasper is quick. But why would he take the poetry?”

Now Judy knew! It was like a heavy load falling from her shoulders. She remembered what Emily Grimshaw had said about his suing her. He had schemed to do it and stolen the poetry himself. Besides, he may have suspected Irene’s identity and been afraid she would find out too much.

Irene’s eyes sought Judy’s and found in them understanding and sympathy. She had told the truth, and, with Judy to explain, everyone would believe her. But she couldn’t forget that it was Dale Meredith who had believed her without an explanation.