"Blaming me for what, Mrs. Carmac?" came in the secretary's harsh voice. The door had been left open when the box was brought in, and Raymond himself was standing there now. He had just returned from Quimperlé, and had the semblance of a man pierced with cold, as the night had suddenly grown chilly. His small eyes roved from Mrs. Carmac's irritated face to Yvonne, who was still seated, and had not interfered in the conversation. Then they dwelt on the empty trunk and the disheveled heap of its contents.
"You've recovered some of your baggage, I see," he went on quietly. "Is that the box containing your jewelcase?"
"It is the box that did contain it at one time," came the vexed rejoinder.
"Do you mean that the case is not there?"
"Yes. Someone has stolen it. I care nothing about the diamonds; but the pearls were given me by Mr. Carmac, and cannot be replaced."
"But—forgive the question—why did you say you do not blame me?"
"I blame no one, you least of any, as you are the one man who was never near my cabin since I quitted it."
Raymond advanced farther into the room. After one sharp glance at the flustered sailor, he gazed again at the limp collection of garments on the floor, from which a light haze of steam was curling lazily, as the temperature of the apartment was many degrees higher than that of the wet and closely packed lingerie and dresses.
"This is a very serious matter," he said slowly. "Unfortunately most of the Stella's crew have left Pont Aven."