It was at that instant that he became conscious of the great coat. In the hope of possibility to provide he ran his hands through its pockets. All he discovered was a soiled handkerchief and a bit of string.
"Sorry," he said, "but I fear I left my case in my room. You see, I came away in something of a hurry."
He didn't in the least mean to be funny, and the stout woman took him quite seriously.
"You're the tenth man I've asked," she said, "and they've all said the same thing."
"Perhaps some of the ladies—" suggested Carleigh.
"No," came the reply. "There's not a cigarette among them. But they seem to have everything else, from jewels to tooth-brushes. Mrs. Blythe, I hear, saved her manicure set and left behind a manuscript poem that would have made lasting fame for her. It's really too bad."
Carleigh, still perplexed, looked at her again. There was something suggestive of—But no, that couldn't be. The Marchioness of Highshire had the most beautiful golden-bronze hair in the kingdom.
Then he stole a look at the framed photograph. Perhaps that would help. The glare from what was left of Carfen House made it stand out as though spotted by a calcium. It was of a small, wizened old man with gray whiskers. Certainly not Mr. Telborn.
She caught him stealing the look and turned the photograph over.
"It's the only thing I saved," she explained.