"You're killing me, that's what you're doing, killing me! Tearing my heart out of me. There ain't a man, nor a woman, in all the world that I love like I love you! I'd rather be dead a million times than do what you think I've done. You are all the good I've ever known, you folks, but I wish to God I'd never seen you. I wish to God you'd left me where I was."
"Mon Dieu!" cried Dr. Crossett. "What is a man to think?"
"You all believe I done it," went on Maria, "don't you? You've all said so, all but just you." She faced John squarely, but John dropped his head; he could not meet her eye. "You think so, too," she continued. "You've got to think so, because," she stepped close up to him, "because the awful part of it is that it was just me--or her!" She raised her hand slowly, pointing at Lola.
"Lola," John turned to her, a queer, hesitating, doubtful tone in his voice. "Maria is such a good girl, I--I----"
"There--there is no chance of--of a mistake is there--you--you did not----"
"Damn it, Doctor!" John turned to him almost roughly. "Let me pay the eight hundred and fifty, and let's none of us ever think of this again."
"You don't think I done it," Maria cried out, "you don't. But you are the only one. Well, Doctor," she turned to Dr. Crossett desperately, "I'm done. I can't say anything more. What are you going to do?"
"Unless you restore that money to me at once," replied the Doctor, sternly, "I must telephone for a police officer."
"And I warn you that, if he comes, he will take you away with him."
"Yes, sir, but it ain't that I'm thinking of. It ain't even that the news of me being called a thief has got to go to the man I love. I can't even think of that right now. It's that you believe it. I--I won't try to run away, I'll be in my room there, when you want me."
She left them, and went blindly down the hall and threw herself on her bed. No one could see her now; there was no need to fight back the sobs that were stifling her. Somewhere out on the ocean was a man who loved her. What would he think of her now? Under this same roof were the persons who had taught her all that she knew of the good things of life; to them she was a thief--to them--no--not to all of them! Lola! Lola! She sat up suddenly, dry-eyed; her own words came back to her, "It was just me, or her," and again she said, this time to herself, "That's the awful--awful part of it."