She was hunting fruitlessly through her pockets. “Where can I have put my purse? Oh, I think I must have put it in my overcoat!”
She had flung this garment down on a chair, upon first entering the parlour, and stepped across the room to feel in the capacious pockets.
“Are you seriously proposing to count a few miserable shillings into my hand?”
“Yes, indeed I am. Oh, here it is!” She pulled out a leather purse with a ring round its neck, from one pocket, stared at it, and exclaimed: “This is not my purse!”
Sir Richard looked at it through his glass. “Isn’t it? It is certainly not mine, I assure you.”
“It is very heavy. I wonder how it can have come into my pocket? Shall I open it?”
“By all means. Are you quite sure it is not your own?”
“Oh yes, quite!” She moved to the table, tugging at the ring. It was a little hard to pull off, but she managed it after one or two tugs, and shook out into the palm of her hand a diamond necklace that winked and glittered in the light of the candles.
“Richard!” gasped Miss Creed, startled into forgetting the proprieties again. “Oh, I beg your pardon! But look!”
“I am looking, and you have no need to beg my pardon. I have been calling you Pen these two days.”