A warning glance from his partner arrested him. The gambling lady herself was rather red, and shot a malevolent glance at the indiscreet young man.
“The necklace was mine,” she said acidly.
“Oh!” said Leslie, and found the conversation of no great interest to him.
Gilbert did not smile at his friend’s embarrassment.
“A necklace,” he repeated, “how curious—yours?”
“Mine,” repeated Mrs. Cathcart. “I placed it with Warrell’s for security. Precious fine security it proved,” she added.
Warrell was all apologies. He was embarrassed for more reasons than one. He was very annoyed indeed with the indiscreet youth who owed his preponderant interest in the firm the more by reason of his dead father’s shares in the business than to any extent to his intelligence or his usefulness.
“Exactly what kind of necklace was it?” continued Gilbert. “I did not see a description.”
“No description was given,” said Mr. Warrell, coming to the relief of his client, whom he knew from infallible signs was fast losing her temper.
“We wished to keep the matter quiet, so that it should not get into the papers.”
Edith tactfully turned the conversation, and in a few minutes they were deep in the discussion of a question which has never failed to excite great interest—the abstract problem of the church.
Mrs. Cathcart, it may be remarked in passing, was a churchwoman of some standing, a leader amongst a certain set, and an extreme ritualist. Add to this element the broad Nonconformity of Mr. Warrell, the frank scepticism of Leslie, and there were all the ingredients for an argument, which in less refined circles might develop to a sanguinary conclusion.
Edith at least was relieved, however drastic the remedy might be, and was quite prepared to disestablish the Church of Wales, or if necessary the Church of England, rather than see the folly of her mother exposed.
Despite argument, dogmatism of Mrs. Cathcart, philippic of Leslie, and the good-natured tolerance of Mr. Warrell, this latter a most trying attitude to combat, the dinner ended pleasantly, and they adjourned to the little drawing-room upstairs.
“I’m afraid I shall have to leave you,” said Gilbert.
It was nearly ten o’clock, and he had already warned his wife of an engagement he had made for a later hour.
“I believe old Gilbert is a journalist in these days,” said Leslie. “I saw you the other night in Fleet Street, didn’t I?”
“No,” replied Gilbert shortly.
“Then it must have been your double,” said the other.
Edith had not followed the party upstairs. Just before dinner Gilbert had asked her, with some hesitation, to make him up a packet of sandwiches.
“I may be out the greater part of the night,” he said. “A man wants me to motor down to Brighton to meet somebody.”
“Will you be out all night?” she had asked, a little alarmed.
He shook his head.
“No, I shall be back by four,” he said.
She might have thought it was an unusual hour to meet people, but she made no comment.
As her little party had gone upstairs she had remembered the sandwiches, and went down into the kitchen to see if cook had cut and laid them ready.
She wrapped them up for him and packed them into a little flat sandwich case she had, and then made her way back to the hall.
His coat was hanging on a rack, and she had to slip them into the pocket. There was a newspaper in the way; she pulled it out, and there was something else, something loose and uneven.
She smiled at his untidiness, and put in her hand to remove the debris.
Her face changed.
What was it?
Her fingers closed round the object in the bottom of the pocket, and she drew it out.
There in the palm of her hand, clearly revealed by the electric lamp above her head, shone her diamond necklace!
For a moment the little hall swayed, but she steadied herself with an effort.
Her necklace!
There was no doubt—she turned it over with trembling fingers.
How had he got it? Where did it come from?
A thought had struck her, but it was too horrible for her to give it expression.
Gilbert a burglar! It was absurd. She tried to smile, but failed. Almost every night he had been out, every night in the week in which this burglary had been committed.
She heard a footstep on the stairs, and thrust the necklace into the bosom of her dress.
It was Gilbert. He did not notice her face, then—
“Gilbert,” she said, and something in her voice warned him.
He turned, peering down at her.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Will you come into the dining-room for a moment?” she said.
Her voice sounded far away to her.
She felt it was not she who was speaking, but some third person.
He opened the door of the dining-room and walked in. The table was spread with the debris of the dinner which had just been concluded. The rosy glow of the overhead lamp fell upon a pretty chaos of flowers and silver and glass.
He closed the door behind him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“This,” she replied quietly, and drew the necklace from her dress.
He looked at it. Not a muscle of his face moved.
“That?” he said. “Well, what is that?”
“My necklace!”
“Your necklace,” he repeated dully. “Is that the necklace that your mother lost?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“How very curious.”
He reached out his hand and took it from her and examined the diamond pendant.
“And that is your necklace,” he said, “Well, that is a remarkable coincidence.”
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
He did not make any reply. He was looking at her with a stony stare in which there was neither expression nor encouragement for speculation.
“Where did I get it?” he repeated calmly. “Who told you that I’d got it?”
“I found it in your pocket,” she said breathlessly. “Oh, Gilbert, there is no use denying that you had it there or you knew it was there. Where did you get it?”
Another pause, then came the
