so like his mother! I went round my
fastenings with unusual care. Safe and closets and desk and doors, I tried
them all. Coming at last to the bathroom, it opened at once. It was the
housemaid's doing. She had evidently taken advantage of my having
abandoned the room to give it "a thorough spring cleaning," and I
anathematized her. The furniture was all piled together and veiled with
sheets, the carpet and felt curtain were gone, there were new brooms
about. As I peered around, a voice close at my ear made me jump--Lady
Carwitchet's!

"I tell you I have nothing, not a penny! I shall have to borrow my train
fare before I can leave this. They'll be glad enough to lend it."

Not only had the _portiere_ been removed, but the door behind it had been
unlocked and left open for convenience of dusting behind the wardrobe. I
might as well have been in the bedroom.

"Don't tell me," I recognized Carwitchet's growl. "You've not been here
all this time for nothing. You've been collecting for a Kilburn cot or
getting subscriptions for the distressed Irish landlords. I know you. Now
I'm not going to see myself ruined for the want of a paltry hundred or so.
I tell you the colt is a dead certainty. If I could have got a thousand or
two on him last week, we might have ended our dog days millionaires. Hand
over what you can. You've money's worth, if not money. Where's that
sapphire you stole?"

"I didn't. I can show you the receipted bill. All _I_ possess is honestly
come by. What could you do with it, even if I gave it you? You couldn't
sell it as the Valdez, and you can't get it cut up as you might if it were
real."

"If it's only bogus, why are you always in such a flutter about it? I'll
do something with it, never fear. Hand over."

"I can't. I haven't got it. I had to raise something on it before I left
town."

"Will you swear it's not in that wardrobe? I dare say you will. I mean to
see. Give me those keys."

I heard a struggle and a jingle, then the wardrobe door must have been
flung open, for a streak of light struck through a crack in the wood of
the back. Creeping close and peeping through, I could see an awful sight.
Lady Carwitchet in a flannel wrapper, minus hair, teeth, complexion,
pointing a skinny forefinger that quivered with rage at her son, who was
out of the range of my vision.

"Stop that, and throw those keys down here directly, or I'll rouse the
house. Sir Thomas is a magistrate, and will lock you up as