He had seen it a few days before, was certain he had, shook up the contents, then overturned the box, strewing the studs and pins on the bureau. But it was fruitless—the band, crushed and flattened as he remembered it, was gone. He muttered an angry phrase, its loss came as a jar on the exaltation of his mood. Then a soft step on the staircase caught his ear, and looking up he saw Willitts' head rise into view. The man came down the passage and spoke with his customary quiet deference:
"I saw the car outside, sir, and knew you'd come back. Would you like dinner—the cook says she can have it ready in a minute?"
"No," Ferguson's voice was short, "I dined in town. Look here, I've lost something—" he pointed to the scattered jewelry—"I had a cigar band in that box and it's gone. Did you see it?"
Willitts looked at the box and shook his head:
"No, sir. A cigar band, a thing made of paper?" There was the faintest suggestion of surprise in his voice.
"Yes, you must have seen it. It was there a few days ago, underneath all that truck—I saw it myself."
The man again shook his head and, moving to the bureau, began to shift the toilet articles and look among them.
"I'm afraid I didn't see it, sir, or if I did I didn't notice. Maybe it's got strayed away somewhere."
He continued his search, Ferguson watching him with moody irritation:
"What the devil could have happened to it? I put it in there myself, put it in that particular place for safekeeping."