"The girl's raving," he said; but his voice was a little shaky. "I haven't been in the conservatory this evening."
"Neither have I," said Runce, wiping the frozen incredulity off his features with an effort. "I'll tell you what it is —"
But he did not tell them what it was, for at this point a fresh authoritative voice interrupted the debate with a curt "Make way, please," and the crowd opened to let through the burly figure of a detective-sergeant in plain clothes. Simon looked round, and saw that he had posted a constable at the door as he came in. The sergeant scanned the faces of the group, and addressed Mrs. Dempster-Craven.
"What's the trouble?"
"My pendant —"
She was helped out by a chorus of bystanders whose information, taken in the mass, was somewhat confusing. The sergeant sorted it out phlegmatically; and at the end he shrugged.
"Since these gentlemen are all accusing each other, I take it you don't wish to make any particular charges?"
"I cannot accuse my guests of being thieves," said Mrs. Dempster-Craven imperially. "I only want my diamond."
The sergeant nodded. He had spent twelve years in C Division, and had learned that Berkeley Square is a region where even policemen have to be tactful.
"In that case," he said, "I think it would help us if the gentlemen agreed to be searched."