He said nothing. But he turned his face and she saw the two pin-points of light. That was enough. She told him about the theft of Lady Sellingworth’s jewels, her neglect of all endeavour to recover them, her immediate plunge into middle-age after the theft, and her avoidance of general society ever since.
“What do you make of it?” she asked, when she had finished.
“Make of it?”
“Yes.”
“Does your little mind find it mysterious?”
“Well, isn’t it rather odd for a woman who loses fifty thousand pounds’ worth of jewels never to try to get them back?”
“Not if they were stolen by a lover.”
“You think—”
“It’s as obvious as that Martin, R.A., can’t paint and I can.”
“But I believe they were stolen at the Gare du Nord. Now does that look like a lover?”