“Ah!  You notice my fingers?  Not at all sensitive about them, really.  Hunting a few years ago and clumsily fell on the camp-stove.  Scar on my shoulder where I struck as I rolled off.  Stupid.  Tripped over a case of canned corn.  I have fingers now as sensitive as a blind man’s.”

“I am sorry,” she said perfunctorily.  “You must tell me of your adventures.”

“Had a raft of ’em.  Mr. Killigrew gone to New York?”

“For a part of the day.  Had your breakfast?”

“No.  Nothing to do; thought I’d wait for the rest of them.  Read a little.  Swim this morning, just about dawn.  Refreshing.”

“Then I’ll see you at breakfast.”

He smiled and stepped aside for her to pass.  She proved rather a puzzle to him.

Kitty spent several minutes in the telephone booth.

She began to realize that the solution of the Webb-Monckton wager was as far away as ever.  Lord Monckton was leaving on the morrow.  She must play her cards quickly or throw them away.  The fact that neither had in any way referred to the character of the wager left her in a haze.  Sometime during the day or evening she must maneuver to get them together and tell them frankly that she knew everything.  She wanted her sapphires; more, she wanted the incubus removed from Thomas’ shoulders.  Mad as March hares, both of them; for they had not the least idea that the sapphires were hers!

Later, she stole to the library door and peered in.  Thomas was at his desk.  For a long time she watched him.  He appeared restless, uneasy.  He nibbled the penholder, rumpled his hair, picked up the ivory elephant and balanced it, plunged furiously into work again, paused, stared at the Persian carpet, turned the inkwell around, worked, paused, sighed.  Thomas was very unhappy.  This state of mind was quite evident to Kitty.  Kissed her and hadn’t wanted to.  He was unlike any young man she knew.

Presently he began to scribble aimlessly on the blotter.  All at once he flung down the pen, rose and walked out through the casement-doors, down toward the sea.  Kitty’s curiosity was irresistible.  She ran over to the blotter.

Fool!

Blighter!

Rotter!

Double-dyed ass!

Blockhead!

Kitty Killigrew—­(scratched out)!

Nincompoop!

Haberdasher!

Ass!

All of which indicated to the investigator that Thomas for the present had not a high opinion of himself.  An ordinary young woman would have laughed herself into hysterics.  Kitty tore off the scribbles, not the least sign of laughter in her eyes, and sought the window-seat in the living-room.  There was one word which stood out strangely alien:  haberdasher.  Why that word?  Was it a corner of the curtain she had been striving to look behind?  Had Thomas been a haberdasher prior to his stewardship?  And was he ashamed of the fact?