"But it was!" insisted the lady, rather emphatically. "I locked it myself before coming on deck after we left Brest. I remember doing so most distinctly."
"Then it's a myst'ry, Ma'am,—a real myst'ry, seein' as the lock has been turned. The wards are full o' sand, of course; but that has nothin' to do with their position."
"Where is the box now?"
"Outside on a handcart, Ma'am. Jackson's on guard. That's been his job all day—just sittin' on that box. You see, Ma'am, you tole me you was particular about it an' the other one; so I've taken care that each of 'em reaches you just as we found it."
"Will you kindly ask the hotel porters to carry the one box here now?"
"Cert'nly, Ma'am. There's on'y one thing. The contents are in a sad mess. The sight of 'em may upset you."
"No, no. The loss of the clothing is immaterial. Please have the box brought in."
Popple lost no time. Mrs. Carmac was explaining to Yvonne that the solitary article of jewelry she valued, a necklace of graded pearls, had been left in a locked case, itself inclosed in a locked box, when a porter entered and dumped a rust-covered steel trunk on the floor. Popple untied the knots of a rope that kept the lid in position. Unquestionably, if Mrs. Carmac had turned the key in the lock on leaving her cabin, it had been opened later, either by accident or design.
The owner dropped to her knees instantly. After an alarmed glance at an arrangement of straps beneath the lid, she piled a number of sodden and salt-stained articles on the floor. Soon she was gazing disconsolately at an empty box. The jewelcase was not there. But she was more than disturbed, she was exceedingly annoyed.