“A necklace worth thousands of dollars was stolen.” She reviewed events. “Petite Jeanne was near. When they looked for her, she had vanished. She stole the necklace. What could be more certain than this? She stole it! They will say that. They’ll arrest her on sight.
“She stole it.” She repeated the words slowly. “Did she?”
The very question shocked her. Petite Jeanne was no thief. This she knew right well. She had no need to steal. She still had a little money in the bank. Yet, as a means to an end, had she taken the necklace, intending later to return it?
“No! No!” she whispered aloud. “Jeanne is reckless, but she’d never do that!
“But where is the necklace? Who did take it?” For a time she endeavored to convince herself that the precious string of pearls, having become unclasped, had slipped to the floor, that it had been discovered and even now was in its youthful owner’s possession.
“No such luck.” She prodded the fire vigorously. “In the end fortune smiles upon us. But in the beginning, nay, nay!
“And to-morrow evening—” She rose to fling her splendid arms wide. “To-morrow my little friend walks in, after many brave detectives have spent the day in a vain search for her, and says quite nonchalantly:
“‘There you are, madame. Shall I remove your sable coat? Or will you wear it? And will you have the chair, so? Or so? Voila!’
“Who can say it is not going to be dramatic? Drama in real life! That’s what counts most with Jeanne. Oh, my dear little Jeanne! What an adorable peck of trouble you are!”
And all the time, quite lost in the big, eager, hungry world that waited just outside her window, the little French girl lay among her pink eiderdown quilts and slept the sleep of the just.