He had been angrily thrusting a hand into first one and then another pocket, bringing out a snuff-box, then a handkerchief, and lastly the little morocco case.
“That must be it, Major Rockley,” said the MC coldly; and their eyes met with a curiously long stare.
“As you say, Mr Denville, mistakes are so easily made. I am in your debt for this—I shall never forget it. You will excuse me now, I am sure. The little matter has agitated me more than I should care to own.”
The MC bowed.
“Seen, you said, I think? Was it you who saw me pick up that case—by accident?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you oblige me with the name of the person?”
“It is not necessary,” said Denville. “I am master of the ceremonies, sir, of my own house. This affair, I may tell you, will be kept private by us both.”
Major Rockley bowed and turned to gaze round the room, to see if he could select Denville’s informant; but there was no one whom he felt ready to blame but Richard Linnell—Barclay he knew it could not be—or was it that handsome Cora Dean?
He turned again close by the door, and tried to catch Claire Denville’s eyes; but she was talking gravely to Linnell, so, half bowing to Denville, he said quietly: