a few
minutes before. But there was the hole in the velvet--and nothing more
to be found."

"But does no one know anything? Has no one an idea?" Clara almost panted
in her impatience.

"Not the ghost of a glimmer of a clue. There were upward of two hundred
of us, and they let us out like a chain-gang, one by one. My number was
one hundred and ninety-three, and so far I can vouch there were no
discoveries. It has vanished--sunk out of sight."

Flora sighed. "Oh, poor Bessie Chatworth!" It came out with a quick
inconsequence that made Clara--even in her impatience--ever so faintly
smile. "It seems so cruel to have your things taken like that when
you're dead, and can't help it," Flora rather lamely explained. "I
should hate it."

Harry stared at her. "Oh, come. I guess you wouldn't care." His eyes
rested for a moment on the fine flare of jewels presented by Flora's
clasped hands. "Besides,"--his voice dropped to a graver level--"the
deuce of it is--" he paused, they, both rather breathless, looking at
him. He had the air of a man about to give information, and then the air
of a man who has thought better of it. His voice consciously shook off
its gravity. "Well, there'll be such a row kicked up, the probability is
the thing'll be returned and no questions asked. Purdie's keen--very
keen. He's responsible, the executor of the estate, you see."

But Clara Britton leveled her eyes at him, as if the thing he had
produced was not at all the thing he had led up to. "Still, unless there
was enormous pressure somewhere--and in this case I don't see where--I
can't see what Mr. Purdie's keenness will do toward getting it back."

Harry played a little sulkily with the proposition, but he would not
pick up the thread he had dropped. "I don't know that any one sees. The
question now is--who took it?"

"Why, one of us," said Flora flippantly. "Of course, it is all on the
Western Addition."

"Don't you believe it!" he answered her. "It's a confounded fine
professional job. It takes more than sleight of hand--it takes genius, a
thing like that!"

Flora gave him a quick glance, but he had not spoken flippantly. He was
serious in his admiration. She didn't quite fancy his tone. "Why,
Harry," she protested, "you talk as if you admired him!"

At this he laughed. "Well, how do you know I don't? But I can tell you
one thing"--he dropped back into the same tone again--"there's no local
crook work in this affair. It should be some o