"Well, then, who has, Vic? Damn it, who has?" savagely.
Then did Victoria Mosel open her eyes wide, as wide as cigar-shaped eyes can open, and look at the questioner; next she folded her lids into a most natural slit of repose, and turned her gaze to the ceiling, saying:
"Look here, Tommy, I've told you already that you haven't got it, and that ought to be enough for you. You ought to be grateful. In fact, you were grateful just now. Only gratitude's short-lived."
"I believe you've got the stinking brooch, Vic," said her cousin (by marriage) surlily.
"You said that before—and I said, search me! I wish to Christ I had," said Vic. "I'd hand it on through Baba to the van Burens next time Archie went to Amsterdam. They'd know what to do with it! I should get it back in four pieces. They'd keep the fifth—but I'd net a bellyful!"
The young man got up from his lounge and stood surlily with his hands in his pockets.
"It's got to be found!" he said.
"It'll be found all right," assured Vic deliberately. "And who'll be relieved then, my boy?" And she dug a lean elbow with maidenly modesty under his fifth rib.
"Go to hell!" shouted the goaded Tommy. He intended to convey, after his fashion, that the conversation was closed.
He sauntered out of the room and Victoria Mosel, who always liked a warm chair in winter, sank back into the seat he had abandoned. She lit her third cigarette, the fifteenth of that morning, and shut her eyes to think over the matter fully. She had been up late the night before and Sunday morning is a good time for repose. She fell into a lounging little self-sufficient sleep, and snored in a gentle fashion, not unmusical ... dear Victoria!