Claire eagerly examined the jewels again one by one.
“Yes—see—both of you,” she cried excitedly; “there is the tiny slip of card I put under that snap, because the spring had grown so weak; and there should be a little scratch and a chip in one of the big diamonds in the tiara. No—no—I can’t see it,” she said hurriedly.
“A scratch and a chip on a diamond!” said Mrs Barclay, smiling. “Oh, my dear, my dear!”
“Yes. There are the marks,” cried Claire excitedly. “Look, both of you, look!”
“Well, so they are, my dear,” acquiesced Mrs Barclay. “Well, that is strange! But that don’t make ’em diamonds, you know. It only proves what I said—that they are paste.”
“They were Lady Teigne’s jewels,” cried Claire; “and I always believed them to be diamonds.”
“Well,” cried Mrs Barclay, “and some one killed that poor old creature for the sake of getting a few bits of paste. Ugh!”
She threw down the necklet she held with a look of disgust. “If I’d ha’ known I wouldn’t ha’ touched ’em. My Jo-si-ah couldn’t ha’ known, or he wouldn’t ha’ bought ’em. This must be cleared up.”
She went toward the bell, but Claire followed and caught her arm.
“What are you going to do?” she said, with an ashy face.