"If I can only scramble it in there before she comes," whispered she. "I shall draw the first long breath I've taken since last night. I wouldn't own those things if they were given me. They would worry me into my grave."
An anxious interval elapsed before the brick was pried out and the case slipped beneath it. Nevertheless the feat was accomplished and triumphant, relieved, happy Sylvia set about preparing dinner.
She even ventured to hum softly that when Marcia returned she might find her entirely serene.
"Mr. Heath, alas, will never know how becoming his jewelry was to me," she mused. "Had a Hollywood producer seen me, he would have snapped me up for a movie star within ten minutes. I certainly looked the part."
What a long while Marcia was staying upstairs! Why, one could change a dozen pillow-slips in this time.
"I guess they are tighter than I remembered them. I needn't have rushed as I did," pouted Sylvia. "What can she be doing?"
When at last Marcia returned, something evidently was wrong.
"What's the matter?" demanded Sylvia. "Is Mr. Heath worse?"
"Worse? No indeed. What made you think so?"
"You look fussed."