"You have come to me, I presume, because it is not to be a police matter. Will you tell me quite frankly why?"
"The police would be useless. I know who took it."
"Yes?"
"There is a man we both know slightly—a man called Paul Melville."
Lord Peter's eyes narrowed. "M'm, yes, I fancy I've seen him about the clubs. New Army, but transferred himself into the Regulars. Dark. Showy. Bit of an ampelopsis, what?"
"Ampelopsis?"
"Surburban plant that climbs by suction. You know—first year, tender little shoots—second year, fine show—next year, all over the shop. Now tell me I am rude."
Mrs. Ruyslaender giggled. "Now you mention it, he is exactly like an ampelopsis. What a relief to be able to think of him as that.... Well, he is some sort of distant relation of my husband's. He called one evening when I was alone. We talked about jewels, and I brought down my jewel-box and showed him the Light of Africa. He knows a good deal about stones. I was in and out of the room two or three times, but didn't think to lock up the box. After he left, I was putting the things away, and I opened the jeweller's case the diamonds were in—and they had gone!"
"H'm—pretty bare-faced. Look here, Mrs. Ruyslaender, you agree he's an ampelopsis, but you won't call in the police. Honestly, now—forgive me; you're askin' my advice, you know—is he worth botherin' about?"
"It's not that," said the woman, in a low tone. "Oh, no! But he took something else as well. He took—a portrait—a small painting set with diamonds."