“Don’t you remember?—that young married lady who came to the dance with the Featherstons. She lives somewhere in London.”
Miss Deveen considered a little. “I don’t remember any Mrs. Hughes, Johnny.”
“But, dear Miss Deveen, you must remember her,” I persisted. “She was very young-looking, as little as Sophie Chalk; Harry Whitney, dancing with her, trod off the tail of her thin pink dress. I heard old Featherston telling you about Mrs. Hughes, saying it was a sad history. Her husband lost his money after they were married, and had been obliged to take a small situation.”
Recollection flashed upon Miss Deveen. “Yes, I remember now. A pale, lady-like little woman with a sad face. But let us go back to business. You all left on the 26th; I and Miss Cattledon on the 27th. Now, while the visitors were at the Hall, I don’t think the upper-housemaid could have had time to send off the studs by rail. Still less could she have come up herself to pledge them.”
Miss Deveen’s head was running on Mr. Bond’s theory.
“It was no housemaid that pledged the studs,” spoke Mr. James.
“I was about to say, Mr. James, that if you took them in yourself over the counter, they could not have been sent up to your assistant.”
“All the people about me are trustworthy, I can assure you, ma’am,” he interrupted. “They would not lend themselves to such a thing. It was a lady who pledged those studs.”
“A lady?”
“Yes, ma’am, a lady. And to tell the truth, if I may venture to say it, the description you have now given of a lady just tallies with her.”