Madame Beattie, the next day, did go to Weedon Moore's office. He was unprepared for her and so the more agonisingly impressed. Here was a rough-spoken lady who, he understood, was something like a princess in other countries, and she was offering him an interview.
Madame Beattie showed she had the formula, and could manage quite well alone.
"The point is the necklace," said she, sitting straight and fanning herself, regarding him with so direct a gaze that he pressed his knees in nervous spasms. "You don't need to ask me how old I am nor whether I like this country. The facts are that I was given a very valuable necklace—by a Royal Personage. Bless you, man! aren't you going to take it down?"
"Yes, yes," stammered Moore. "I beg your pardon."
He got block and pencil, and though the attitude of writing relieved him from the necessity of looking at her, he felt the sweat break out on his forehead and knew how it was dampening his flat hair.
"The necklace," said Madame Beattie, "became famous. I wore it just enough to give everybody a chance to wonder whether I was to wear it or not. The papers would say, 'Madame Beattie wore the famous necklace.'"
"Am I permitted to say—" Weedon began, and then wondered how he could proceed.
"You can say anything I do," said Madame Beattie promptly. "No more. Of course not anything else. What is it you want to say?"
Weedon dropped the pencil, and under the table began to squeeze inspiration from his knees.
"Am I permitted," he continued, aghast at the liberty he was taking, "to know the name of the giver?"