Mrs. Falkener turned. The kitchen had revealed none of the enormities she had expected—not even a man hidden in the kitchen closet, the door of which she had hopefully opened; but one chance still remained. The ice-box! In her time she had known many incriminating ice-boxes. She called loudly to be taken to it.
"It's this way, madame," said the cook.
Mrs. Falkener drew Crane aside.
"That," she said, "is the very best way to judge of a cook's economical powers. See how much she saves of the dishes that come from the upstairs table. Now, last night I happened to notice that the chicken salad went downstairs almost untouched."
For the first time in years, Burton found himself coloring.
"Oh, really?" he stammered. "I had an idea that we had eaten quite a lot of it."
"No," returned Mrs. Falkener firmly, "no, a good dish went down. Let us go and see."
Crane glanced at Jane-Ellen. He thought she had overheard.
They reached the ice-box; the cook lifted the lid, and Mrs. Falkener looked in. The first sight that greeted her eyes was the platter that had borne the salad she had liked so much. It was almost empty.
"Why, Jane-Ellen," she said, "where is all the rest of that excellent salad?"