The man accidentally dropped the vial and it rolled out of sight. He did not wait to search for it, did not dare to delay his departure. He walked quickly toward a corner of the balcony, where the top of a vine-covered trellis rose just above the railing.
Toby Monk was at that moment passing the corner with his motor car.
Both Nick Carter and Chick had witnessed the episode in the ballroom, and the same thought arose in the minds of both—that Mrs. Thurlow was perfectly safe while with her nephew.
The moment that Dorson returned alone, however, both detectives felt a quick thrill of suspicion, an instinctive feeling that the fateful moment had arrived, and both hurried toward the nearest of the French windows, making their way as quickly as possible through the maze of whirling dancers.
Chick was the first to reach the balcony. Coming from the glare in the ballroom, he could not immediately see the seated woman in the dim light outside. He discovered her in a moment, however, and ran toward her—just as his chief hurriedly approached from the opposite direction.
One glance at Mrs. Thurlow’s white face, at her vacant eyes and lax figure, at the neck, then bare of its lustrous adornment—one glance was enough.
“By thunder, they’ve turned the trick!” Chick cried, staring. “That man Dorson must——”
Carter did not wait to hear him. He had swung around like a flash, seeking the thief, knowing that scarce a minute had passed since the woman left the ballroom. The few persons then on the balcony had not observed any disturbance, but the detective instantly caught sight of the swaying top of the trellis mentioned.
He ran in that direction, reaching for his revolver, but he arrived at the corner of the balcony rail only in time to see a slender, black-clad figure leap into a moving motor car, that instantly sped away down the avenue—Tim Hurst, with the rope of pearls in his pocket.