She considered a moment and then said abruptly:
"Go in and sit down. I'm busy at the telephone. I'll be back in a moment."
The studio was still blazing with the electric chandeliers, the dining-table still crowded with the untouched dinner, with that sense of desolation and fatigue which the aftermath of a banquet presents. Lighted up as it was, the studio had none of the mystery that charmed—rather, something of the cruel garishness of the white sun.
He moved about aimlessly, arms crossed, his imagination repeopling the room with the strongly accentuated personalities who had gathered there an hour before, saying to himself over and over:
"Now, why the deuce did Garraboy come back?"
He approached the table and abstractedly took an almond and began munching it. Then, perceiving the chafing-dish, reached over, with a smile, and lifted the cover. But, at the moment his hand was outstretched, his eyes, obeying some mysterious instinct, rose to a long Venetian mirror opposite. In the clear reflection that showed the balcony of the second floor, he distinctly beheld the head of a woman protruding a little beyond the curtain.
"What the deuce!" he said, covering the chafing-dish with a bang. "It can't be Rita—who then?"
All at once he comprehended. If the ring had not been found in the search, it was because it had been concealed in the room, and the woman in the balcony was a detective set to watch the trap—if the real thief had the daring to return.
At this moment Rita Kildair entered from the bedroom.
"Good heavens, Rita!" he said directly. "You don't mean to say you suspect me?"