"Does that mean there's competition in the field?"
"It means just that." Simon's gaze was sweeping systematically over the other guests; and at that moment he saw the men he was looking for. "You see that dark bird who looks as if he might be a gigolo? Face like a pretty boy, till you see it's just a mask cut in granite… That's Philip Carney. And the big fellow beside him — just offering the Dempster-Craven a cigarette. That's George Runce. They're two of the slickest jewel thieves in the business. Mostly they work the Riviera — I don't think they've been in England for years. Kate was talking in the plural all the time, and I wondered who she meant."
Peter's mouth shaped a silent whistle.
"What's going to happen?"
"I don't know definitely; but I should like to prophesy that at any moment the lights will go out —"
And as he spoke, with a promptness that seemed almost uncanny, the three enormous cut-glass chandeliers which illuminated the ballroom simultaneously flicked out as if a magic wand had conjured them out of existence; and the room was plunged into inky blackness.
The buzz of conversation rose louder, mingled with sporadic laughter. After trying valiantly to carry on for a couple of bars, the orchestra faded out irregularly, and the dancers shuffled to a standstill. Over in one corner, a facetious party started singing, in unison: "Where — was — moses — when — the — lights— went — out?"… And then, rising above every other sound, came Mrs. Dempster-Craven's hysterical shriek:
"Help!"
There was a momentary silence, broken by a few uncertain titters. And Mrs. Dempster-Craven's voice rang wildly through the room again.
"My pendant! My pendant! Put on the lights!"