But he came across a small parcel, neatly tied with fine string and looking unmistakably like a jeweller’s box. Bobsy opened it, and found a small gold heart-shaped locket. With it was a card bearing the words “For my Goldenheart. From Eric.”
It was quite evidently a gift for the one to whom the letter was written, but it had never been presented. It was easily seen that the parcel had been opened, the card put in, and the string retied in the same punctilious fashion that the jeweller had tied it. The paper wrapping was uncrumpled, but it was a little faded by time, and dusty in the creases.
“Bought it for her but never gave it to her,” Bobsy surmised. “Surely I can make something out of this.”
But nothing seemed definite. A provokingly blank paper, without address of any sort, can’t be indicative of much. The box bore the jeweller’s name, and possibly a visit to the firm might tell when the trinket was bought, which might mean some help, or, more likely, none.
Bobsy showed it to Joyce Stannard, but she took little interest in it.
“It must have been bought before I married Mr. Stannard,” she said.
“Why?”
“I know by the box. That sort of a box was used by that firm the year before I was married. In all probability Mr. Stannard did buy it for a lady, and for some reason or other didn’t present it. It’s of no great value.”
“No,” agreed Bobsy, “except as it proves that his interest in ‘Goldenheart’ has lasted for some time.”
“Then Goldenheart can’t be Miss Vernon,” said Joyce, wearily. “It seems to me, Mr. Roberts, that you get nowhere. You make so much of little things——”