"Now you shall see," said Arthur, in a gay tone. "Come a little nearer; I might be a master of legerdemain."
A melancholy smile crossed Mr. P. Foreman's mouth, and he stood, apparently unconcerned, while Arthur turned out the pockets of his waistcoat and trousers.
"Nothing there," he said.
"Nothing there," said Mr. P. Foreman, and again moved towards the door.
"Stop a moment," said Arthur, "there is my coat."
He turned out the pockets upon the table; from the breast pocket he produced the bank notes he had received from his friend, Jack Stevens; from the tail pockets a handkerchief and gloves. Nothing more. He laughed aloud, and lifted the handkerchief from the table. The laugh was frozen in his throat. As he lifted the handkerchief there fell from it a jewelled brooch, the device a stile of gold, with three birds perched thereon, one of sapphires, one of rubies, one of brilliants.
"My God!" he gasped, and sank into a chair.
Mr. P. Foreman did not break the silence that ensued. With sad eyes he gazed upon the crushing evidence of guilt. At length Arthur found his voice.
"You do not, you cannot," he cried in an agonised tone, "believe me guilty!"
Mr. P. Foreman uttered no word. Arthur's face was like the face of death. A vision of his ruined life rose before him, and in that vision the image of his fair young bride, stricken with despair.