"Probably is," said Garraboy, who extracted another coat of similar appearance from the rack, plunged into his pockets and nodded. "Sure enough. Sorry. Good night."
So thoroughly disagreeable an impression had the broker produced upon Beecher that, in a moment of suspicion, moved by an incredible thought, he ran his hands hastily through the pockets.
"I shouldn't have been surprised," he grumbled to himself, and returned to the studio, where the conversation had been overheard.
The search continued, ended, and, as all expected, no trace of the ring was found.
Mrs. Kildair excused herself, evidently maintaining her calm with difficulty. The guests, murmuring inarticulate phrases, took their wraps, and young Beecher found himself shortly in a coupé beside Nan Charters.
For several moments neither spoke, each absorbed in his own speculations. Beecher studied the figure at his side with covert glances, amazed at the transformation from the childlike charm which had first fascinated him. An hour before he had begun to wonder how far that feeling might develop in him; now, as he watched her, he was conscious of a dispassionate, almost resentful analysis. The fragrance of her perfume, a little too overpowering, filled the interior of the coupé. She herself, bending slightly forward, one elbow against the window-pane, pressed her ungloved knuckles against her chin, while her glance, set and controlled, was lost in the cloudy shadows and striped reflections of the street without.
"What is terrible in such a situation," she said musingly, but without turning, "is that any one may be suspected."
The words were spoken with almost an absolute change of personality. The very tone brought to him an increased antagonism.
"Quite true," he said. "You may have taken it the first time, and I the second."
She turned and tried to distinguish his expression; but, if he had hoped to startle, he was disappointed. She said, quite possessed: