In thwarted wretchedness, the girl realized that it would be worse than useless to make such protests to Sanders. He was the detective, not she—though he had complimented her upon her "smartness" in the matter of the ring and the magnifying-glass. He would only pity and despise her for jealousy and prejudice if she gave him the advice she burned to give. And Jack—Jack was hopeless! He was lost to her.
She felt as miserably alone as if Jack had not promised to be her "knight," and as if he had not brought to her one of the best private detectives in the land. She longed to strike out on her own account, to be first in the field, and be able to say to these men: "See, while you were wandering all round Robin Hood's barn, I've found the place where the secret was buried, and dug it up!"
It was mostly about Pat that Juliet thought, and his disappearance. Upon the pearls she wasted little anxiety, though she hated to think that Pavoya should have them. She had cried out to Pat that she believed not one word of the dancer's story: and she had meant it at the time; but brooding alone over the history of Pavoya's years, and the link between her and Pat, Juliet found herself almost arbitrarily accepting certain details here and there. Yes, that must have been the way those two first met! Pat had told her that he had heard the call of romance in Russia—his great-great-grandfather's romance—and had left Oxford to spend the long vacation among those scenes. How like Pat at nineteen to create a romance of his own on the same spot!
Her heart yearned to Pat with the thought that he had helped Pavoya because of charity, not love. In that case he had told the truth—or as much truth as his wife could expect of a man where women were concerned. But certainly, Juliet assured herself, Pavoya had loved Pat and moved heaven and earth to compromise him. That was really why she'd asked him to lend her the pearls. No doubt she'd begged for the real ones, and he'd lent her the copy. She'd kept the wretched beads, not because of some melodramatic blackmail "stunt," but because she wished to wear them as if they were real, and get herself talked about with Pat. Then, he'd married, and having sent to France for the true pearls for his wife, he couldn't leave the false ones knocking about for Pavoya to play with. He'd practically ordered the woman to return them; and in revenge, when an amazing chance came her way, Pavoya had somehow stolen the genuine rope, changing the contents of the packet!
It all seemed clearer and clearer to Juliet, and she wondered that a man with such good brains as Jack's could be so easily deceived. In pride of her own superior talent as a detective, the girl would have had moments of triumphant joy had it not been for her wearing anxiety about Pat.
Days passed. Pat did not return or write to Juliet or the bank. And no news of importance was obtained for her by Sanders or Jack. Markoff the detective was unable to trace by name, though he had got upon the track of a Russian who had lately arrived in New York with some good introductions. His description answered that given of Konrad Markoff by Mademoiselle Pavoya. Boris Halbin (who had figured at various New York clubs, and was now supposed to have sailed for France) was a person of inconspicuous appearance. So, too, was Markoff. Many Russians over forty are "darkish, stoutish, big faced, blunt featured, with beards turning grey!"
Juliet bravely kept up the fiction with her friends that she and Pat were on the best of terms. He was away on business for the bank. He would soon return. That story about the pearls being false was too silly for words! The reason she'd stopped wearing them was because she had broken the string, and didn't want the responsibility of choosing the person to mend it till Pat came back. The girl would have given thousands of dollars for the privilege of "sporting her oak," and refusing to see the many people whose devotion she attributed to curiosity. But for the sake of the future, and her own pride's sake, she would not do that. She went out a good deal, kept all her engagements, and made new ones. Her nerves, however, revenged themselves upon her mercilessly. Once she had hardly realized that she possessed such things as nerves. Now they made themselves felt each moment of the day, and through hours of the long, restless nights.
Against his will, Sanders had consented to an advertisement appearing in the "personal" column of several papers. Juliet had pleaded that no one would know for whom it was meant, and—she should die if she couldn't put it in! Consequently, curious eyes in many cities of the United States were reading every day this appeal:—"Play Boy: 'American Beauty' believes in you and wants you. Write or come back if you would not break her heart."
Who could guess that the Duchess of Claremanagh's pet name for the Duke was "Play Boy," and that he had sent her "American Beauty" roses every day since they were engaged, because it was the name he had found sweetest, most appropriate for her?
Yet, someone must have guessed: because in the Inner Circle (a week after the sensational pearl "Whisper") the secret was given away. No names were mentioned: yet none who knew the Claremanaghs could have avoided reading between the lines.