“Policemen!”
“Yes.”
Tears suddenly filled the eyes that looked into his. Two small hands clasped themselves in a passionate gesture of appeal.
“Don’t turn me over to the bulls, mister! I only did it for ma’s sake. If you was out of work and starvin’ and you had to sit and watch your poor old ma bendin’ over the washtub. …”
“I haven’t got a poor old ma,” said George curtly. “And what on earth do you think you’re talking about?”
He stopped suddenly, speech wiped from his lips by a stunning discovery. The girl had unclasped her hands, and now she flung them out before her: and the gesture was all that George’s memory needed to spur it to the highest efficiency. For unconsciously Fanny Mullett had assumed the exact attitude which had lent such dramatic force to her entrance into the dining-room of Mrs. Waddington’s house at Hempstead earlier in the day. The moment he saw those outstretched arms, George remembered where he had met this girl before: and, forgetting everything else, forgetting that he was trapped on a roof with a justly exasperated policeman guarding the only convenient exit, he uttered a short, sharp bark of exultation.
“You!” he cried. “Give me that necklace.”
“What necklace?”
“The one you stole at Hempstead this afternoon.”
The girl drew herself up haughtily.
“Do you dare to say I stole a necklace?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh? And do you know what I’ll do if you bring a charge like that against me! I’ll. …”
She broke off. A discreet tap had sounded on the door.
“Honey!”
Fanny looked at George. George looked at Fanny.
“My husband!” whispered Fanny.
George was in no mood to be intimidated by a mere Mullett. He strode to the door.
“Honey!”
George flung the door open.
“Honey!”
“Well, Mullett?”
The valet fell back a pace, his eyes widening. He passed the tip of his tongue over his lips.
“A wasp in the beehive!” cried Mullett.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said George.
Mullett was gazing at him in the manner of one stricken to the core.
“Isn’t your own bridal-trip enough for you, Mr. Finch,” he said reproachfully, “that you’ve got to come butting in on mine?”
“Don’t be a fool. My wedding was temporarily postponed.”
“I see. And misery loves company, so you start in breaking up my home.”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“If I had known that you were on the premises, Mr. Finch,” said Mullett with dignity, “I would not have taken the liberty of making use of your domicile. Come, Fanny, we will go to a hotel.”
“Will you?” said George unpleasantly. “Let me tell you there’s a little matter to be settled before you start going to any hotel. Perhaps you are not aware that your wife is in possession of a valuable necklace belonging to the lady who, if it hadn’t been for her, would now be Mrs. George Finch?”
Mullett clapped a hand to his forehead.
“A necklace!”
“It’s a lie,” cried his bride.
Mullett shook his head sadly. He was putting two and two together.
“When did this occur, Mr. Finch?”
“This afternoon, down at Hempstead.”
“Don’t you listen to him, Freddy. He’s dippy.”
“What precisely happened, Mr. Finch?”
“This woman suddenly burst into the room where everybody was and pretended that I had made love to her and deserted her. Then she fell on the table where the wedding-presents were and pretended to faint. And then she dashed out, and some time afterwards it was discovered that the necklace was gone. And don’t,” he added, turning to the accused, “say that you only did it for your poor old ma’s sake, because I’ve had a lot to put up with today, and that will be just too much.”
Mr. Mullett clicked his tongue with a sort of sorrowful pride. Girls will be girls, Frederick Mullett seemed to say, but how few girls could be as clever as his little wife.
“Give Mr. Finch his necklace, pettie,” he said mildly.
“I haven’t got any necklace.”
“Give it to him, dearie, just like Freddie says, or there’ll only be unpleasantness.”
“Unpleasantness,” said George, breathing hard, “is right!”
“It was a beautiful bit of work, honey, and there isn’t another girl in New York that could have thought it out, let alone gone and got away with it. Even Mr. Finch will admit it was a beautiful bit of work.”
“If you want Mr. Finch’s opinion …” began George heatedly.
“But we’ve done with all that sort of thing now, haven’t we, pettie? Give him his necklace, honey.”
Mrs. Mullett’s black eyes snapped. She twisted her pretty fingers irresolutely.
“Take your old necklace,” she said.
George caught it as it fell.
“Thanks,” he said, and put it in his pocket.
“And now, Mr. Finch,” said Mullett suavely, “I think we will say good night. My little girl here has had a tiring day and ought to be turning in.”
George hurried across the roof to his apartment. Whatever the risk of leaving the safety of the sleeping-porch, it must be ignored. It was imperative that he telephone to Molly and inform her of what had happened.
He was pulling the French window open when he heard his name called: and perceived Mullett hurrying towards him from the door that led to the stairs.
“Just one moment, Mr. Finch.”
“What is it? I have a most important telephone-call to make.”
“I thought you would be glad to have this, sir.”
With something of the air of a conjurer who, to amuse the children, produces two rabbits and the grand old flag from inside a borrowed top-hat, Mullett unclasped his fingers.
“Your necklace, sir.”
George’s hand flew to his pocket and came away empty.
“Good heavens! How … ?”
“My little girl,” explained Mullett with a proud and tender look in his eyes. “She snitched it off you, sir, as we were going out. I was able, however, to persuade her to give it up again. I reminded her that we had put all that sort of thing behind us now. I asked her how she could expect to be happy on our duck-farm if she had a thing like that on her mind, and she saw it almost at once. She’s a very reasonable girl, sir, when tactfully approached by the voice of love.”
George drew
