The girl next applied to the cavity in the wall. Her face set in an apparent effort to “mind” her nerves. She reached in and drew out an oblong box of gold beautifully carved and set with small rubies in a design of peacocks. From her expression—no longer disagreeable, but beautiful from an ecstasy of relief—Pape judged this to be the “stolen” heirloom upon which she was said to set such store.
That her aunt might be absolutely reassured, Jane Lauderdale handed her the tabatière so recently accounted missing. That good lady, however, looked weak, as if about to drop the jeweled box. Pape relieved her of it; led her to a chair.
“I—I don’t understand.”
Like a child utterly dependent on grown-ups for explanation, she glanced from one to the other of the younger pair.
“Except for that famous precision of yours, it would seem easy enough,” Jane offered with more clarity than respect. “You must have pushed the box aside when you took out the pieces Irene wanted to wear. Your hands were full and you neglected to close the safe. When you came down again for your black pearl set and found the door open you thought at once of my snuffbox and jumped at the conclusion, since it wasn’t in the place you remembered putting it, that it wasn’t there at all. Cheer up. You wouldn’t be the dearest auntie in the world if you weren’t human.”
Pape seconded her. “The most precise of us are liable to figments of the imagination, madam. All’s well that ends that way. A snuffbox in hand is worth two in the ——”
But Aunt Helene wasn’t so sure. She interrupted in a complaining voice, as if offended at their effort to cheer her.
“I never jump at conclusions—never. If I was startled into jumping at the one you mention, Jane, it seems strange that I selected these black pearls so accurately. Doesn’t it? And I’d almost take oath that the box wasn’t pushed to one side—that it stood, when I found it just now, exactly on the spot where I first placed it. And then, Mr. Pape, the trouble with the combination——”
“Don’t worry any more about it, poor dear,” Jane begged with a suddenly sweet, soothing air, the while laying a sympathetic palm against her relative’s puckered brow. “I’ve noticed that you haven’t seemed just yourself for days. Perhaps these headaches you’ve complained of mean that you need eyeglasses. It’s only natural that a strain on the optic nerves should confuse your mind, which usually is so precise about all——”
“Nothing of the sort, Jane. You can’t mental-suggest me into old age!” snapped the recalcitrant patient. “My eyes are just as good as yours. And I feel positive that I am quite myself.”