He was conscious of the least little thrill and tendency to an upward glance at the shelf as he plunged his hand into the bagging of the full skirts. Nothing was in them but a torn laced handkerchief—a mere little limp cobweb thing such as ladies use. The two men looked at one another with lowered, compassionate eyes.
“He was spawn of the devil,” muttered Sir David. “Throw him his master’s livery again.”
The coat was returned to the recess. The latter was empty of aught else; as was its double, which they found similarly sunk in the other half of the wardrobe.
Their jubilance was changed to depression. The search, they felt, had yielded all it was like to. That the case had once held the famous gem they felt convinced; and equally of course the cunning scoundrel would never have committed its contents to so simply contrived a hiding-place.
They were no nearer discovery than they had been any time that morning. As a matter of form they would closely examine every other article of furniture in the room; but they knew the result would be nil—as, indeed, it proved to be.
They came down to dinner, tired and famished, and a little morose. Angela received them with a charming smile.
“We meet you with empty hands,” said her host. “I hope you are not devoured with ennui?”
“Oh!” she cried sprightlily—“if I am devoured, it is not with ennui. I am meat for its master.”
“And who is that?”
“Can you ask, sir! Why, Love, to be sure. I am fallen in love with Mr. Dennis. He hath entertained me since your going; and purely, believe me. Never was a figure more melancholy and romantic.”