“And three days before, Bellitzer had already reported misrepresentation and that two necklaces had been used!”
“Yes,” admitted Straithwaite, with an air of reluctant candour, “I had a suspicion that Stephanie’s native ingenuity rather fizzled there. You know, Stephanie dear, there is a difference, it seems, between Bombay and Californian pearls.”
“The wretch!” exclaimed the girl, grinding her little teeth vengefully. “And we gave him champagne!”
“But nothing came of it; so it doesn’t matter?” prompted Straithwaite.
“Except that now Markhams’ pearls have gone and they are hinting at all manner of diabolical things,” she wrathfully reminded him.
“True,” he confessed. “That is by way of a sequel, Mr Carrados. I will endeavour to explain that part of the incident, for even yet Stephanie seems unable to do me justice.”
He detached himself from the arm of the chair and lounged across the room to another chair, where he took up exactly the same position.
“On the fatal evening I duly made my way to the theatre—a little late, so as to take my seat unobserved. After I had got the general hang I glanced up occasionally until I caught Stephanie’s eye, by which I knew that she was there all right and concluded that everything was going along quite jollily. According to arrangement, I was to cross the theatre immediately the first curtain fell and standing opposite Stephanie’s box twist my watch chain until it was certain that she had seen me. Then Stephanie was to fan herself three times with her programme. Both, you will see, perfectly innocent operations, and yet conveying to each other the intimation that all was well. Stephanie’s idea, of course. After that, I would return to my seat and Stephanie would do her part at the first opportunity in Act II.
“However, we never reached that. Towards the end of the first act something white and noiseless slipped down and fell at my feet. For the moment I thought they were the pearls gone wrong. Then I saw that it was a glove—a lady’s glove. Intuition whispered that it was Stephanie’s before I touched it. I picked it up and quietly got out. Down among the fingers was a scrap of paper—the corner torn off a programme. On it were pencilled words to this effect:
“‘Something quite unexpected. Can do nothing to-night. Go back at once and wait. May return early. Frightfully worried.—S.’”