Part 16 (2/2)

”I believe,” said she sharply, ”you would like to find out the thief yourself.”

”I should not have the smallest objection,” I exclaimed frankly; ”if these robberies continue, no woman in London will wear real stones; and I shall be the loser.”

”I have thought of that,” said she; ”but, you know, you are not to make the slightest attempt to expose any guest in my house; what you do outside is no concern of mine.”

”Exactly,” said I, ”and for the matter of that I am likely to do very little in either case; we are working against clever heads; and if my judgment be correct, there is a whole gang to cope with. But tell me about the rubies.”

”Well,” said she, ”the stolen pendant is in the shape of a rose. The belt, as you know, was brought by Lord Faber from Burmah. Besides the ring of rubies, which each drop has, the missing star includes four yellow stones, which the natives declare are ripening rubies. It is only a superst.i.tion, of course; but the gems are full of fire, and as brilliant as diamonds.”

”I know the stones well,” said I; ”the Burmese will sell you rubies of all colors if you will buy them, though the blue variety is nothing more than the sapphire. And how long is it since you missed the pendant?”

”Not ten minutes ago,” she answered.

”Which means that your next partner might be the thief?” I suggested.

”Really, a dance is becoming a capital entertainment.”

”My next partner is my husband,” said she, laughing for the first time, ”and whatever you do, don't say a word to him. He would never forgive me for losing the rubies.”

When she was gone, I, who had come to her dance solely in the hope that a word or a face there would cast light upon the amazing mystery of the season's thefts, went down again where the press was and stood while the dancers were pursuing the dreary paths of a ”square.” There before me were the hundred types one sees in a London ball-room--types of character and of want of character, of age aping youth, and of youth aping age, of well-dressed women and ill-dressed women, of dandies and of the bored, of fresh girlhood and worn maturity. Mixed in the dazzling _melee_, or swaying to the rhythm of a music-hall melody, you saw the lean forms of boys; the robust forms of men; the pretty figures of the girls just out; the figures, not so pretty of the matrons, who, for the sake of the picturesque, should long ago have been in. As the picture changed quickly, and fair faces succeeded to dark faces, and the coquetting eyes of pretty women pa.s.sed by with a glance to give place to the uninteresting eyes of the dancing man, I asked myself what hope would the astutest spy have of getting a clue to the mysteries in such a room; how could he look for a moment to name one man or one woman who had part or lot in the astounding robberies which were the wonder of the town? Yet I knew that if nothing were done, the sale of jewels in London would come to the lowest ebb the trade had known, and that I, personally, should suffer loss to an extent which I did not care to think about.

I have said often, in jotting down from my book a few of the most interesting cases which have come to my notice, that I am no detective, nor do I pretend to the smallest gift of foresight above my fellow man.

Whenever I have busied myself about some trouble it has been from a personal motive which drove me on, or in the hope of serving some one who henceforth should serve me. And never have I brought to my aid other weapon than a certain measure of common sense. In many instances the purest good chance has given to me my only clue; the merest accident has set me straight when a hundred roads lay before me. I had come to Lady Faber's house hoping that the sight of some stranger, a chance word, or even an impulse might cast light upon the darkness in which we had walked for many weeks. Yet the longer I stayed in the ball-room the more futile did the whole thing seem. Though I knew that a nimble-fingered gentleman might be at my very elbow, that half-a-dozen others might be dancing cheerfully about me in that way of life to which their rascality had called them, I had not so much as a hand-breadth of suspicion; saw no face that was not the face of the dancing a.s.s, or the smart man about town; did not observe a single creature who led me to hazard a question.

And so profound at last was my disgust that I elbowed my way from the ball-room in despair; and went again to the conservatory where the palms waved seductively, and the flying corks of the champagne bottles made music harmonious to hear.

There were few people in this room at the moment--old General Sharard, who was never yet known to leave a refreshment table until the supper table was set; the Rev. Arthur Mellbank, the curate of St. Peter's, sipping tea; a lean youth who ate an ice with the relish of a schoolboy; and the ubiquitous Sibyl Kavanagh, who has been vulgarly described as a garrison hack. She was a woman of many partialties, whom every one saw at every dance, and then asked how she got there--a woman with sufficient personal attraction left to remind you that she was _pa.s.se_, and sufficient wit to make an interval tolerable. I, as a rule, had danced once with her, and then avoided both her program and her chatter; but now that I came suddenly upon her, she cried out with a delicious pretence of artlessness, and ostentatiously made room for me at her side.

”_Do_ get me another cup of tea,” she said; ”I've been talking for ten minutes to Colonel Harner, who has just come from the great thirst land, and I've caught it.”

”You'll ruin your nerves,” said I, as I fetched her the cup, ”and you'll miss the next dance.”

”I'll sit it out with you,” she cried gus.h.i.+ngly; ”and as for nerves, I haven't got any. I must have shed them with my first teeth. But I want to talk to you--you've heard the news, of course! Isn't it dreadful?”

She said this with a beautiful look of sadness, and for a moment I did not know to what she referred. Then it dawned upon my mind that she had heard of Lady Faber's loss.

”Yes,” said I, ”it's the profoundest mystery I have ever known.”

”And can't you think of any explanation at all?” she asked, as she drank her tea at a draught. ”Isn't it possible to suspect some one just to pa.s.s the time?”

”If you can suggest any one,” said I, ”we will begin with pleasure.”

”Well, there's no one in this room to think of, is there?” she asked with her limpid laugh; ”of course you couldn't search the curate's pockets, unless sermons were missing instead of rubies?”

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