“I don’t know,” and then, seeing the dark looks on the Detective’s face, Joyce exclaimed, “You tell about it, Beatrice. I—I can’t talk.”
“This is the story,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “About an hour ago, Mrs. Stannard sent for me to come to her room. I went, and she showed me the case of gems, saying she had found it on her dressing-table when she awoke this morning. It was not there when she retired last night. Further than that, she knows nothing about it.”
“You mean, the jewels appeared there mysteriously?”
“Yes. She cannot account for it, herself. We have been talking it over, and it seems to me the only explanation is that one of the servants took them, and then decided to return them. Of course it would be practically impossible for a servant to sell or dispose of them after the publicity that has been given to the matter.”
“Of course. But why a servant? Why not a guest—or a member of the household,—or—or Mrs. Stannard, herself?”
“I!” exclaimed Joyce. “Why I’ve just found them!”
“Didn’t you have them all the time?”
“Of course not! How dare you imply such a thing? This morning they were in my room, last night they were not there. They were brought there during the night. It is for you to find out who brought them.”
“Was the door of your bedroom locked?”
“No. It is not our habit to lock our doors,—any of us. The outer doors and windows are securely fastened, and we have no reason to distrust any of the servants.”