“In the first place,” said Quinny, preparing to annex the topic, “whether the situation actually happened or not, which is in itself a mere triviality, Peters has constructed it in a masterly way, the proof of which is that he has made me listen.  Observe, each person present might have taken the ring—­Flanders, a broker, just come a cropper; Maude Lille, a woman on the ragged side of life in desperate means; either Mr. and Mrs. Cheever, suspected of being card sharps—­very good touch that, Peters, when the husband and wife glanced involuntarily at each other at the end—­Mr. Enos Jackson, a sharp lawyer, or his wife about to be divorced; even Harris, concerning whom, very cleverly, Peters has said nothing at all to make him quite the most suspicious of all.  There are, therefore, seven solutions, all possible and all logical.  But beyond this is left a great intellectual problem.”

“How so?”

“Was it a feminine or a masculine action to restore the ring when threatened with a search, knowing that Mrs. Kildair’s clever expedient of throwing the room in the dark made detection impossible?  Was it a woman who lacked the necessary courage to continue, or was it a man who repented his first impulse?  Is a man or is a woman the greater natural criminal?”

“A woman took it, of course,” said Rankin.

“On the contrary, it was a man,” said Steingall, “for the second action was more difficult than the first.”

“A man, certainly,” said De Gollyer.  “The restoration of the ring was a logical decision.”

“You see,” said Quinny triumphantly, “personally I incline to a woman for the reason that a weaker feminine nature is peculiarly susceptible to the domination of her own sex.  There you are.  We could meet and debate the subject year in and year out and never agree.”

“I recognize most of the characters,” said De Gollyer with a little confidential smile toward Peters.  “Mrs. Kildair, of course, is all you say of her—­an extraordinary woman.  The story is quite characteristic of her.  Flanders, I am not sure of, but I think I know him.”

“Did it really happen?” asked Rankin, who always took the commonplace point of view.

“Exactly as I have told it,” said Peters.

“The only one I don’t recognize is Harris,” said De Gollyer pensively.

“Your humble servant,” said Peters, smiling.

The four looked up suddenly with a little start.

“What!” said Quinny, abruptly confused.  “You—­you were there?”

“I was there.”

The four continued to look at him without speaking, each absorbed in his own thoughts, with a sudden ill ease.

A club attendant with a telephone slip on a tray stopped by Peters’ side.  He excused himself and went along the porch, nodding from table to table.

“Curious chap,” said De Gollyer musingly.

“Extraordinary.”

The word was like a murmur in the group of four, who continued watching Peters’ trim disappearing figure in silence, without looking at one another—­with a certain ill ease.