“That string of pearls belongs to the man who once lived in the front room of my old building in New York. He moved uptown with my landlady. A few months ago a burglar robbed and shot him——”
She stopped, seized his arm and cried with strangling horror:
“Jim! Jim! Where did you get them?”
“Now I know you've gone crazy! You don't suppose that's the only string of pearls in the world, do you? Did you count 'em? Did you weigh 'em?”
“Where did you get them?” she demanded.
“What put it into your head that that string of pearls belonged to your old boarder?”
“I saw him write the stanza of poetry on the satin lining of that case. I've heard him recite it over and over again in his piping voice: `Each bead a pearl—my rosary!' I KNOW that they belonged to him!”
His mouth twitched angrily and he faced her, speaking with cold, brutal frankness.
“I might keep on lying to you, Kiddo, and get away with it. But what's the use? You've got to know. It's just as well now—I did that job——Yes!”
Her face blanched.