The servant who had brought breakfast to her on a covered salver had never approached the toilet-table she was certain; but Miss De Jobbyns had, as she remembered, lingered before the mirror, and trifled with the little etceteras that lay thereby.
Could she be the abstractor, the delinquent, the thief?
Impossible! Yet Alison had barely completed attiring herself for the street, with the intention of asking permission to go out for a little time, when a maid appeared, sent by Mrs. De Jobbyns, to request her presence in the drawing-room.
'In the drawing-room,' thought Alison; 'what does that import?'
On entering, the first object that caught her eye was her locket in that lady's hand, and she had a perfect conviction that the latter and her daughter were inflamed with keen resentment.
'Jealousy,' we are told, 'smacks of low life and the drama.' Be that as it may, Alison was now fated to a sample thereof.
'Is this your property, Miss Cheyne?' asked Mrs. Slumpkin De Jobbyns, frigidly, yet tremulous with passion.
'It is; and how came it in your possession, I demand?' exclaimed Alison.
'You demand?'
'Yes.'