"Because the police had not then notified the pawnbrokers of London of the loss. In fact, as far as I can make out, the attempted sale must have taken place at almost identically the same time when I came to London to make enquiries about the pendant. The pawnbroker himself, it seems, did not see the pendant. Two of his assistants were in charge of the shop, when a young woman came in, and asked them what they would give her for it. They seem to have suspected her from the first, for she was obviously very poor, and not at all the sort of person likely to be possessed of such a magnificent ornament. They made her an offer, and apparently she took flight, and left the shop in a violent hurry. She evidently saw and understood their suspicions of her, but unfortunately they lost sight of her in the fog, and all trace of her is completely gone."
"I think I remember you suspected a young woman of the theft? Does the description of the young person who went to the pawnbroker, answer to the woman who was alone in the railway carriage with Cousin Ellen's dressing-bag?"
"The pawnbroker's assistants can only give a confused account of a shabbily-dressed girl, who seemed badly in need of money. Their descriptions are far from explicit. According to our maid, the young woman in the railway carriage, was neatly dressed and very respectable in appearance, but the two people might very easily be identical."
"Very easily," Cicely answered; "but it is unfortunate that the pawnbroker's assistants let the girl go. By now, I suppose, the pendant may be broken up, and the stones untraceable."
"Only too likely," Sir Arthur answered; "and yet I cannot help still hoping to recover the thing intact. I cannot bear to think that a jewel my mother so greatly valued, one which indeed has become an heirloom, should be irretrievably lost."
"Not irretrievably, I hope," Cicely answered, as she rose to go. "Perhaps, when you come to us at Bramwell, you will be able to bring us good news of the missing jewel, and—" she added with some hesitation, "and about your brother-in-law, too." Again she wished that she could in the least recollect what the scandal had been. Possibly, she might never even have heard it, for John, her chivalrous and tender husband, had kept from her ears everything that could vex or soil them, and if she had ever heard the story, it had long since been buried in oblivion. At her words, Sir Arthur's face clouded.
"All! there will never be any good news about that wretched man. The best news about him, the only news I can honestly say I wish to hear, would be that he was safely in his grave. My sister, poor silly woman, is infatuated about him still, I believe. She was always a fool where he was concerned, always a fool." Sir Arthur's tones were irascible; "you never saw her, of course?"
"I never saw either of your sisters," Cicely answered gently; "they—I think they had been married and had gone right away, long before I knew any of you. You see it is only six years since I married John."
"Only six years. And it is more than twenty years since both my sisters left the old home. Both left it under a cloud; both insisted on marrying men of whom my father and mother did not approve. Ah! it was a sad business altogether, a sad business. They both belonged to the order of women who go on caring for a man, whatever follies or sins he may commit. I confess I cannot understand the attitude of mind of such women."
"No, I daresay not," Cicely answered, her eyes thoughtfully fixed on his severe face. "I expect you feel that love and respect must always go hand in hand, and that when a man has once lost a woman's respect, he ought to lose her love as well."