“With Mr. Greene,” added Average Jones.
“I tell you,” cried that gentleman vehemently, “I haven’t set eyes on the wretched thing.”
“Agreed,” returned Average Jones; “which doesn’t at all affect the point I wish to make. You may recall, Mr. Greene, that in my message I asked you to pack your suitcase exactly as it was when you left the hotel with it on the morning of August seventh.”
“I’ve done so with the exception of the conjurer’s chain, of course.”
“Including the dressing-gown you had on, that night, I assume. Have you worn it since?”
“No. It hung in my closet until yesterday, when I folded it to pack. You see, I—I’ve had to give up the road on account of my unhappy failing.”
“Then permit me.” Average Jones stooped to, the dress-suit case, drew out the garment and thrust his hand into its one pocket. He turned to Mrs. Hale.
“Would you—er—mind—er—leaning over a bit?” he said.
She bent her dainty head, then gave a startled cry of delight as the young man, with a swift motion, looped over her shoulders a chain of living blue fires which gleamed and glinted in the sunlight.
“They were there all the time,” she exclaimed; “and you knew it.”