“Ursula Ardfern! She is not the kind of person who would mislay her jewels for the sake of a few lines of advertising,” he said. “Where did she lose them?”
“It is rather a curious story,” said the editor, leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “She went into a post office on Saturday morning on her way to the theatre for the matinee, bought some stamps putting the jewel-case down on the counter by her side. When she looked round the case was gone. It happened so suddenly and in such a surprisingly short space of time that she could not believe her eyes and did not even complain to the Post Office officials. Her own story is, that she thought she must be suffering from some kind of delusion and that she had not brought the jewel-case out at all. She went back to her suite at the Central Hotel and searched every room. By the time she was through, it was near the hour for her matinee, and she hurried down to the theatre—anyway, to cut a long story short, she did not report her loss to the police until this morning.”
“She wouldn’t,” said Tab stoutly. “She’s the kind of girl who would hate the publicity of it and would do all she could to make sure there was not a simple explanation of their loss before she put the matter in the hands of the police.”
“You know her, eh?”
“I know her in the sense that a reporter knows almost everybody from the Secretary of State to the hangman,” said Tab, “but I’ll take this story if you like. There will be nothing doing on the Trasmere case before the evening. She stays at the Central, does she?”
The other nodded.
“You will need to exercise a little ingenuity,” he said, “especially if what you say about her hating publicity is true. I’d like to get a photograph of the actress who hated publicity and hang it up in this office,” he added.
At the Central Hotel, Tab found himself up against a blank wall.
“Miss Ardfern is not receiving callers,” said the enquiry clerk. He was not even certain that she was in.
“Will you send my card up?”