“My—my mistress said you would want money, and sent this,” faltered Bessie.
The great man smiled softly and opened the case, then suddenly his face changed, and his eyes, as they scanned the magnificent gems closely, grew sharp and keen. But it was only for an instant; the next moment his expression was that of the simple, commonplace individual.
“Where did you get this from—your mistress, I mean?” he asked.
“It was her wedding present from Mr. Faradeane,” replied Bessie, in a faltering voice.
“Oh,” he said, slowly, “from Mr. Faradeane. Hem!” He snapped-to the case and put it in his pocket. “Yes, we detectives always want money, and you can tell your mistress I’ll take care of this. Oh, yes, she can rest easy. I’ll take care of it.” He stood looking at her in silence for a moment, then he said: “And so your mistress saw Mr. Faradeane in prison this morning, eh?”
Bessie started and crimsoned, and he laughed.
“Now you can go back; you don’t mind traveling all night, do you? Because your mistress will be anxious, you know.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” assented Bessie, eagerly, “and if I can only take her some good news!” and she clasped her hands.
Mr. McAndrew looked down at her thoughtfully, then he smiled and offered her his arm. “I’ll take you to the station,” he said. He got her some refreshment, put her in a first-class carriage, and, but not until the train was upon the point of starting, said, “How is Mr. Bartley Bradstone?”
Indeed, the engine shrieked and was off with its burden before Bessie could reply.