"I do not remember your ladyship having mentioned it," said Sutton, acidly.
"Your big bar, Den? The one I gave you last Christmas?"
"Yes." Denise sipped the fiery spirit. "Telephone, Cyril; send a man round. The fastening was bad; search the car."
"I do not think that we shall find it." Sir Cyril's face was very stern. He remembered seeing Esmé pressed close to his wife. In his heart he had no doubt the woman had stolen again.
Esmé had been Denise's friend in time of trial. He could not give her into the hands of the police. He said nothing to his wife, but went down slowly, heavily, to write a note and send it round.
And as fogs rise, so the whisper grew; Sir Cyril shrugged his shoulders when he spoke of the loss; he openly turned away from Esmé Carteret in the Park.
"Someone, I fancy, took it from my wife when she felt faint; at a huge reception like that there are curious people. Lord Harrington noticed it as she came to supper."
Sharp eyes had seen Esmé press close to Lady Blakeney, whisper to her; someone had noticed that she slipped something inside her dress.
London must draw its skirts aside from this offender and suspect.