Jack Dorson saw at a glance that the rope of pearls was gone, however, and, with nerves now as tense as bowstrings, he quickly took advantage of the detective’s remarks, not for a moment dreaming that they had been designedly made.
“Yes, yes, she said she felt faint,” he replied, holding the glass of water to his aunt’s lips. “I noticed in the ballroom that she was quite pale. I had picked up her handkerchief, or one I supposed was hers.”
“I happened to see you,” Carter nodded. “Wasn’t it hers?”
“She said not.”
“It appears to be missing.”
“She must have dropped it again.”
“Very likely.”
“I told her she had better come out in the air,” Dorson was explaining very glibly, each moment feeling more sure of successfully hiding his guilt. “I came with her and placed her in this chair, and she then asked me to bring her some water.”
“Exactly.” Carter agreed with him readily. “I saw you returning hurriedly, and I thought there might be something wrong. That’s why I came out here.”
“Good heavens!” Dorson now exclaimed, as if suddenly alarmed. “There is something wrong. See? Her rope of pearls is gone. She was wearing it when I left her.”