That was all. But something in his tone produced an electrical effect. Joanna, in her corner--remote, like the Indian, from the centre of the disturbance--turned red and pale, and flashed angry glances round her. For the rest, they wished themselves away. It was impossible to overlook the insinuation. The words, simple as they were, in a moment put a graver complexion on the matter. Even Mrs. Burton Smith was silent, looking to her husband. He looked furtively at Wibberley.
And Wibberley? So far he had merely thought himself in an unpleasant fix, from which he must escape as best he could, at the expense of a little embarrassment and a slight loss of self-respect. Even the latter he might regain to-morrow, if he saw fit, by telling the truth to Mrs. Burton Smith; and in time the whole thing would become a subject for laughter, a stock dinner-party anecdote. But now, at the first sound of the Indian's voice, he recognised his danger; and saw in the hundredth part of a second that ruin, social damnation, perhaps worse, threatened him. His presence of mind seemed to fail him at sight of the pit opening at his feet. He felt himself reeling, choking, his head surcharged with blood. The room, the expectant faces all turned to him, all with that strange expression on them, swam round before him. He had to lay his hand on a chair to steady himself.
But he did steady himself; to such an extent that those who marked his agitation did not know whether it proceeded from anger or fear. He drew himself up and looked at his accuser, holding the chair suspended in his hands. "What do you mean?" he said hoarsely.
"I should not have spoken," the Civilian answered, returning his gaze, and speaking in measured accents, "if Mr. Burton Smith had not twice appealed to us to confess the joke, if a joke it was."
"Well?"
"Well, only this," the other replied. "I saw you take Lady Linacre's bracelet from that table a few moments before it was missed, Mr. Wibberley."
"You saw me?" Wibberley cried. This time there was the ring of honest defiance, of indignant innocence, in his tone. For if he felt certain of one thing it was that no one had been looking at him when the unlucky deed was done.
"I did," the Civilian replied dispassionately. "My back was towards you. But my eyes were on this mirror"--he touched an oval glass in a Venetian frame which stood on the mantelpiece--"and I saw quite clearly. I am bound to say that, judging from the expression of your face, I was assured that it was a trick you were playing."
Ernest Wibberley tried to frame the words, "And now?"--tried to force a smile. But he could not. The perspiration stood in great beads on his face. He shook all over. He felt himself--and this time it was no fancy--growing livid.
"To the best of my belief," the Civilian added quietly, "the bracelet is on your left arm now."