"You know that for all your talking you've still committed a crime?"
"I think you'd be rather a lonely prosecutor."
Rage had made her a little incoherent.
"I shall not come to your office. You've made a fool of yourself. My necklace is in the bank—"
"Countess," said the Saint patiently, "I'd guessed that much. That's why I want you to be sure and bring me the real one. Lady Instock is going to leave her earrings and send a check as well, and all the rest of your friends seem to be sold on the idea. You're supposed to be the number one patron. What would they think of you if after all the advertising you let yourself out with a fifty-dollar string of cut glass?"
"I can disclaim—"
"I know you can. But your name will still be Mud. Whereas at the moment you're tops. Why not make the best of it and charge it to publicity?"
She knew she was beaten — that he had simply turned a trick with the cards that for days past she had been busily forcing into his hand. But she still fought with the bitterness of futility.
"I'll have the police investigate this phony charity—"
"They'll find that it's quite legally constituted, and so long as the funds last they'll be administered with perfect good faith."