“Crispi didn’t tell. I found you in a directory,” said Tab cheerfully.
The sunlight was very kind to Ursula and it seemed to him that she looked even more beautiful in these surroundings than she had in the generous setting and the more merciful lighting of the theatre.
She was slimmer than he had thought, and conveyed an extraordinary impression of hurt youth. Somewhere, sometime, this girl had suffered, he thought, yet there was no hint of old pain in her unlined face, no suggestion of sorrow or remorse in her clear blue eyes.
“I suppose you have come to cross-examine me about my jewels,” she said, “and I will allow you, on one condition, to ask me any question you wish.”
“What is the condition?” he smiled.
“Bring up that chair.” She pointed across the strip of lawn. “Now sit down,” and when he had obeyed, “the condition is this: that you will confine yourself to saying that I have no recollection of the jewels being taken, but I shall be very glad to have them back and pay a suitable reward, that they were not as expensive as most people thought and that I am not insured against loss by theft.”
“All of which I will faithfully record,” said Tab. “I am an honest man and keep my promises. I admit it.”
“And now I will tell you, for your own private ear,” she said, “that if I never see those jewels again, I shall be a very happy woman.”
He looked at her open-mouthed.
“You don’t think I am posing, do you?” she looked round at him suspiciously. “I see that you don’t. I am not in the least worried that I shall have to play the part with property jewels as I did last night.”