The reference to Chumru puzzled her and that was a gratifying thing in itself, for if Frank could be mistaken about her share in Chumru’s departure from Lucknow, why should not she be wrong in her interpretation of the mysterious presence of the necklace?
When her uncle came she wept again, being hysterical with the sheer joy of watching his face while he perused Frank’s note.
A man’s bewilderment finds different expression to a woman’s. A man trusts his brain, a woman her heart.
“If there is one thing absolutely clear in this letter it is that Frank knows nothing whatever about the pearls you produced from his turban,” said Mr. Mayne, with the frown of a judge who is dealing with a knotty point in equity.
“There are—several things—quite clear in it—to me,” fluttered Winifred.
“Ah, hum, yes. But I mean that it is ridiculous to suppose he would knowingly leave such a valuable article exposed to the chances and changes of barrack-room life in a siege. Whatever motive he may have had in concealing the necklace earlier he would surely have said something about it now, given some hint as to its value, asked you to take care of his baggage, or something of the sort.”
“In my heart of hearts I always felt that we were misjudging Frank,” said she.
Mayne’s eyebrows lifted a trifle, but he passed no comment.
“By the way,” he said, “where is the necklace?”
“Here,” she said, pulling a box out of a cupboard. The string of pearls was coiled up in the midst of the roll of soiled muslin and the badge was pinned to one of the folds.