Bracondale, for the first time, noticed that the morocco jewel-case stood open on the table.
“He must have got them from your bedroom!” he exclaimed; and then, his quick eye catching sight of the tinder of the burnt letter in the fender of the stove, he bent, picked it up, and remarked:
“He seems to have also burnt something. I wonder what it was?”
His lordship crossed the carpet and stood looking upon the dead face.
“Who is he? Do you know, Jean?” he inquired in a serious, intense tone.
“I—I have no idea.”
“The police will establish his identity, no doubt. I will telephone for them,” he said. “But where are the pearls now?”
“In his pocket, I expect,” she said.
Bracondale bent and hastily felt the outside of one of the dead man’s pockets. But they were not there.
He felt the other, and, discovering them, drew out the beautiful string, and replaced it in its box.