He had wronged her in front of six people, and so an apology murmured privately in his office would not be an apology at all — it would be a second insult, a way of making himself feel better while leaving the public damage exactly where it stood.

The staff had watched him call her a thief.

They had watched her open her bag and be proven honest.

If he let that be the end of the public record, then some part of the suspicion would cling to her forever, the way suspicion does, a residue that no private word could wash off.

The only way to undo a public wrong was to be publicly wrong about it — to stand in the same kitchen, in front of the same people, and say plainly and without hedging: I accused this woman, I was wrong, she is honest, and the fault was entirely mine.

It cost him something to do it.