She made no further search, but remained without moving, her fingers slowly tapping the table, her head inclined, her lips drawn in a little between her teeth, watching in the glass the crowded table reflected from the outer studio.
In that gay party, one person was the thief—but which one? Each guest had had a dozen opportunities in the course of the time she had been in the kitchen.
"Too much prinking, pretty lady," called out Garraboy, who, from where he was seated, could see her.
"Not he," she said quickly. Then she reconsidered: "Why not? He's shifty—who knows? Let me think."
To gain time, she went slowly back to the kitchen, her head bowed, her thumb between her teeth.
"Who has taken it?"
She ran over the characters of her guests and their situations as she knew them. Strangely enough, with the exception of Beecher and Majendie, at each her mind stopped upon some reason that might explain a sudden temptation.
"And even Majendie—if he is bankrupt or running away," she thought. "No, I shall find out nothing this way. That is not the important thing just now. The important thing is to get the ring back. But how?"
All at once she realized the full disaster of the situation. Slade would never believe her; and yet, how was it possible to admit before others who had lent her the ring?
"What could I say to him?" she thought desperately. "No, no; I must have the ring back, whatever happens. I won't give him that hold. I must get it back—some way—somehow."