"We do," said Quarles. "That is the leather case, Wigan. Does it tell you anything?"
I took it and examined it.
"You seem to have got some grease on it, Professor."
"It was like that. Greasy fingers had touched it—recently, I judge—although, of course, the case may be an old one, and not made especially for the earrings. It is only a smear, but it could not have got there while the case was lying in a drawer amongst the contessa's things. Now open it. You will find a grease mark on the plush inside, which means that very unwashed fingers have handled it. That does not look quite like a dainty French maid—for she is dainty, Wigan."
"That is why you examined her dress, I suppose."
"Exactly! There was no suspicion of grease upon it. Facts have prejudiced you against Angélique. I do not see a thief in her, but I do see a certain watchfulness in her eyes whenever we meet her. She knows something, Wigan, and to-morrow I am going to find out what it is. I think a few judicious questions will help us."
Quarles had never been more the benevolent old gentleman than when he saw the French maid next day.
He began by telling her that he was certain she was innocent, that he believed in her just as much as her mistress did.
"Now, when did you last see the pearls?" Quarles asked.
"The day before they were stolen."