“No, this is not mine. You are mistaken.”
“Are you sure, Aunt Clara? It was on the floor behind you. I thought you had dropped it.”
Mrs. Thurlow bowed her head a little closer to examine it, still much crumpled, unfolding it and seeking an initial.
“No, it is not mine, Jack,” she repeated. “It may be marked, however, or—or——”
Her voice suddenly died away to a whisper. She looked up at Dorson, as if strangely dazed, and he saw her eyes quickly taking on the vacant expression that had been predicted, the pupils contracting to mere pinpoints, abnormally bright, while her lips turned from red to a dull gray.
Though his every nerve was quivering with secret terror, Dorson kept his head and continued to play his part. He instantly took the woman’s arm, saying quietly:
“You are pale and look tired. Step out on the balcony with me. The air will revive you.”
Mrs. Thurlow obeyed him as if in a trance or a victim of an hypnotic spell. She walked out with him through the French window. There was a large wicker chair near by, and Dorson placed her in it, then whisked the fateful handkerchief from her fingers and thrust it into his pocket. Then he hurried back into the ballroom, through which he passed as if in haste to obtain water, as he really was.
The man lurking near the wall in the dim light instantly approached the woman. Pausing beside her chair, he bowed as if to converse with her. His keen, black eyes shot one swift glance at a few persons on a remote part of the balcony. None was observing him. His deft hands quickly lifted the rope of pearls and dropped it into his pocket. Then he took out a small glass vial, poured the contents of it upon a sponge, and held the latter to the woman’s nostrils for a few seconds.
Mrs. Thurlow gasped and caught her breath.