“Mr. Enos Jackson?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kildair.”

“Kindly do as I ask you.”

“Certainly.”

She had spoken his name with a peremptory positiveness that was almost an accusation.  He rose calmly, raising his eyebrows a little in surprise.

“Go to the door,” she continued, shifting her glance from him to the others.  “Are you there?  Lock it.  Bring me the key.”

He executed the order without bungling, and returning stood before her, tendering the key.

“You’ve locked it?” she said, making the words an excuse to bury her glance in his.

“As you wished me to.”

“Thanks.”

She took from him the key and, shifting slightly, likewise locked the door into her bedroom through which she had come.

Then transferring the keys to her left hand, seemingly unaware of Jackson, who still awaited her further commands, her eyes studied a moment the possibilities of the apartment.

“Mr. Cheever?” she said in a low voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Kildair.”

“Blow out all the candles except the candelabrum on the table.”

“Put out the lights, Mrs. Kildair?”

“At once.”

Mr. Cheever, in rising, met the glance of his wife, and the look of questioning and wonder that passed did not escape the hostess.

“But, my dear Mrs. Kildair,” said Mrs. Jackson with a little nervous catch of her breath, “what is it?  I’m getting terribly worked up!  My nerves—­”

“Miss Lille?” said the voice of command.

“Yes.”

The journalist, calmer than the rest, had watched the proceedings without surprise, as though forewarned by professional instinct that something of importance was about to take place.  Now she rose quietly with an almost stealthy motion.

“Put the candelabrum on this table—­here,” said Mrs. Kildair, indicating a large round table on which a few books were grouped.  “No, wait.  Mr. Jackson, first clear off the table.  I want nothing on it.”

“But, Mrs. Kildair—­” began Mrs. Jackson’s shrill voice again.

“That’s it.  Now put down the candelabrum.”

In a moment, as Mr. Cheever proceeded methodically on his errand, the brilliant crossfire of lights dropped in the studio, only a few smoldering wicks winking on the walls, while the high room seemed to grow more distant as it came under the sole dominion of the three candles bracketed in silver at the head of the bare mahogany table.

“Now listen!” said Mrs. Kildair, and her voice had in it a cold note.  “My sapphire ring has just been stolen.”

She said it suddenly, hurling the news among them and waiting ferret-like for some indications in the chorus that broke out.

“Stolen!”

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Kildair!”

“Stolen—­by Jove!”

“You don’t mean it!”

“What!  Stolen here—­to-night?”

“The ring has been taken within the last twenty minutes,” continued Mrs. Kildair in the same determined, chiseled tone.  “I am not going to mince words.  The ring has been taken and the thief is among you.”