“Yes, she was. It doesn’t matter a mite. So long as she was there, it’s all right,” Cornelia replied, turning over the tray of ornaments absently. It seemed odd that Mrs Moffatt should have returned to the hotel after representing that she was obliged to be absent all morning, but no doubt some engagement had fallen through which she had intended to keep. She had lifted a brooch in her hands and turned towards the window to examine the colour of the pearls, when the jeweller spoke again.
“We were delighted to receive your agreement to take the necklace, for, as Mrs Moffatt had definitely decided that it was beyond her figure, we were on the point of sending it over to our Paris house. I am sure Mr Briskett will not regret this purchase when he sees the quality of the stones.”
Cornelia stood stock-still, staring hard at the little pearl brooch, a hundred vague doubts and dreads which had previously been resolutely thrust aside, darting back into her mind with a new and terrible significance. She felt stunned and bewildered, but the predominant sensation was the necessity for caution. She must be certain of what had happened before she presumed to judge. She rallied all her self-possession, and was surprised at the natural sound of her own voice as she replied—
“What makes you speak of my father, Mr Marchant? Did I mention to you at any time that he was fond of emeralds?”
“I believe you did on one occasion, but it was your reference this morning to which I alluded.” Mr Marchant drew out his pocket-book and selected one letter from the contents. “This is it, I think. Yes! You say—‘I have just received a cable permission from my father, Mr Edward B Briskett, to purchase the emerald necklace.’ I was referring to this quotation, rather than any casual remark.”
Cornelia leant over the counter and read the words with her own eyes; saw the signature of her own name written below in Mrs Moffatt’s handwriting.
“Why, of course! I forgot. I never do remember what I write,” she said calmly.
She was sure now; there was no longer any reason for doubt! The everlasting shopping expeditions; the purchase of a succession of worthless trifles; the exploiting of her own wealth, had all been designed to create a confidence which would prepare the way for such a coup as the present. And this morning she had been deliberately decoyed out of the way, while the last scene of the comedy was enacted. The messages were plainly a ruse, while the different rendezvous would have provided a further detention, allowing the conspirators plenty of time to decamp.
Once opened, Cornelia’s eyes were wonderfully keen. She understood now why the goods which it was inconvenient to harbour in a hotel had been constantly despatched to the keeping of “a friend.” She realised that she had been cheated—doubly cheated—in first giving a cheque for two hundred pounds, and afterwards in counting out change for a worthless return.
“I need never fancy myself again after this! I’m just the greenest peach on the wall!” she told herself furiously, but through all the anger and shock, the necessity for caution remained predominant in her mind. Mr Marchant must not suspect that anything was wrong. Even now, at the eleventh hour, the fraud might be prevented. She must get back to the hotel at once; see Mrs Moffatt and reason with her, argue with her, command her to hand over the jewels! The woman was not all bad, and life had gone hardly with her. She should have another chance! Cornelia waived aside all thought of responsibility toward the jeweller himself, by the easy decision to pay for the necklace if necessary, but a sudden feeling of helplessness weighed upon her at the prospect of the interview ahead.