The store was not a large one, and four clerks, one a young woman, with James Darcy and an assistant, who looked after the repair work and made anything unusual in the way of pins or rings, constituted the force.  But Mrs. Darcy was as good as a clerk herself, and during the holiday rush she was in the store night and day.  This was the easier for her, since she owned the building in which her display was kept, and lived in a quiet and tastefully furnished apartment over the store.

On the death of her husband, she had sent for his second cousin, who at that time was in the employ of a well-known New York jewelry house, and he agreed to come to her.

Rather more than a repair man and clerk was James Darcy.  He was an expert jewelry designer and a setter of precious stones; and often, when some fastidious customer did not seem to care for what was shown from the glittering trays in the showcases, Mrs. Darcy or one of her clerks would say: 

“We will have Mr. Darcy design something different for you.”

“That’s what I want,” the customer would say—­“something different—­something you don’t see everywhere.”

And so the Darcy trade had grown and prospered.

“Well, let’s hear what you have to say,” said Carroll, after James Darcy had given what the detectives considered was, for the time, a sufficient history of himself and his relative, and had hastily gone over such of the stock as was kept outside the safe.  The latter had not been forced open—­it did not take long to ascertain that.  “Is anything gone?”

“I can’t say for sure,” answered the young man—­he was this side of thirty.  His long, artistic fingers were trembling, and he felt weak and faint.  “But if there has been a robbery they didn’t get much.  The safe hasn’t been opened, and the best of the goods—­all the diamonds and other stones—­are in that.  Nothing seems to be gone from the cases, though I’d have to make a better search, and go over the inventory, to make certain.”

“Well, let that go for the time.  How’d you find things when you came downstairs?  What happened during the night?  Any of the doors or windows forced?” and the detective fairly shot these questions at Darcy,

“I think not.  The front door was locked, just as it is now.  I went out the side one.  That was locked with the spring catch from the inside.”

“Wasn’t it bolted?” came sharply from Thong.

“I didn’t notice about that.  You see, I was all excited like—­”

“Yes,” assented Thong.

“There’s a bolt on the door!” Carroll snapped.

“Yes, but Mrs. Darcy may have slipped it back herself.  She was down first, though why, I can’t say.  She seldom came down ahead of me, especially of late years.  I generally opened the store.  The clerks report at eighty-thirty—­there’s some of ’em now.”

More knockings had sounded on the front door, and the faces of two young men peered in through the misty glass, the crowd having made a lane for them on learning that they worked in the place of death.