He hesitated.
“There is nothing I should like better,” he said, “but”—he looked at his watch.
She pressed her lips together, and for one moment felt a wave of unreasoning anger sweeping over her. It was absurd, of course, he always went out at this time, and there was really no reason why he should stay in.
“We can discuss it another time,” she said coldly, and left him without a further word.
He waited until he heard the door close in her room above, and then he went out with a little smile in which there were tears almost, but in which there was no merriment.
He left the house at a propitious moment; had he waited another five minutes he would have met his mother-in-law.
Mrs. Cathcart had made up her mind to “own up” and had come in person to make the confession. It was a merciful providence, so she told herself, that had taken Gilbert out of the way; that he had gone out she discovered before she had been in the house four minutes, and she discovered it by the very simple process of demanding from Gilbert’s servant whether his master was at home.
Edith heard of her mother’s arrival without surprise. She supposed that Mrs. Cathcart had come to hand the necklace to its lawful owner. She felt some pricking of conscience as she came down the stairs to meet her mother; had she not been unnecessarily brusque in her demand! She was a tender soul, and had a proper and natural affection for the elder woman. The fear that she might have hurt her feelings, and that that hurt might be expressed at the interview gave her a little qualm as she opened the drawing-room door.
Mrs. Cathcart was coolness itself. You might have thought that never a scene had occurred between these two women which could be remembered with unkindliness. No reference was made to the past, and Edith was glad.
It was not her desire that she should live on bad terms with her mother. She understood her too well, which was unfortunate for both, and it would be all the happier for them if they could maintain some pretence of friendship.
Mrs. Cathcart came straight to the point.
“I suppose you know why I have called,” she said, after the first exchange.
“I suppose you have brought the necklace,” said the girl with a smile. “You do not think I am horrid to ask for it, but I feel I ought to do something for Gilbert.”
“I think you might have chosen another subject for your first letter,” said the elder woman grimly, “but still—”
Edith made no reply. It was useless to argue with her mother. Mrs. Cathcart had a quality which is by no means rare in the total of human possessions, the quality of putting other people in the wrong.
“I am more sorry,” Mrs. Cathcart resumed, “because I am not in a position to give you your necklace.”
The girl stared at her mother in wonder.
“Why! Whatever do you mean, mother?” she asked.
Mrs. Cathcart carefully avoided her eyes.
“I have had losses on the Stock Exchange,” she said. “I suppose you know that your father left us just sufficient to starve on, and whatever luxury and whatever comfort you have had has been due to my own individual efforts? I have lost a lot of money over Canadian Pacifics,” she said bluntly.
“Well?” asked the girl, wondering what was coming next, and fearing the worst.
“I made a loss of seven hundred pounds with a firm of stockbrokers,” Mrs. Cathcart continued, “and I deposited your necklace with the firm as security.” The girl gasped. “I intended, of course, redeeming it, but an unfortunate thing happened—the safe was burgled and the necklace was stolen.”
Edith Standerton stared at the other.
The question of the necklace did not greatly worry her, yet she realised now that she had depended rather more upon it than she had thought. It was a little nest-egg against a bad time, which, if Gilbert spoke the truth, might come at any moment.
“It cannot be helped,” she said.
She did not criticise her mother or offer any opinion upon the impropriety of offering as security for debt articles which are the property of somebody else.
Such criticism would have been wasted, and the effort would have been entirely superfluous.
“Well,” asked Mrs. Cathcart, “what have you got to say?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
“What can I say, mother? The thing is lost, and there is an end to it. Do the firm offer any compensation?”
She asked the question innocently: it occurred to her as a wandering thought that possibly something might be saved from the wreck.
Mrs. Cathcart shot a swift glance at her.
Had that infernal Warrell been communicating with her? She knew that Warrell was a friend of Edith’s husband. It would be iniquitous of him if he had.
“Some compensation was offered,” she answered carelessly, “quite inadequate; the matter is not settled yet, but I will let you know how it developes.”
“What compensation do they offer?” asked Edith.
Mrs. Cathcart hesitated.
“A thousand pounds,” she said reluctantly.
“A thousand pounds!”
The girl was startled, she had no idea the necklace was of that value.
“That means, of course,” Mrs. Cathcart hastened to explain, “seven hundred pounds out of my pocket and three hundred pounds from the broker.”
The girl smiled inwardly. “Seven hundred pounds from my pocket” meant, “if you ask for the full value you will rob me.”
“And there is three hundred pounds due. I think I had better have that.”
“Wait a little,” said Mrs. Cathcart, “they may recover the necklace, anyway; they want me to give a description of it. What do you think?”
The girl shook her head.
“I do not think I should like that,” she said quietly. “Questions might be asked, and I should not like people to know either that the necklace was mine, or that my mother had deposited it as security against her debts.”
Here was the new Edith with a vengeance. Mrs. Cathcart stared at her.
“Edith,” she said
