“Are you not coming down?” he asked.

“Not at present,” she answered.  “I am going to my room.”

He looked around the landing on which they stood, at the miserable, uncarpeted floor, the ill-painted doors on which the long-forgotten varnish stood out in blisters, the jumble of dilapidated hot-water cans, a mop, and a medley of brooms and rags all thrown down together in a corner.

“But these are the servants’ quarters, surely,” he remarked.

“They are good enough for me; my room is here,” she told him, turning the handle of one of the doors and disappearing.  The prompt turning of the key sounded, he thought, a little ungracious.

With the bracelet in his hand, Tavernake descended three more flights of stairs and entered the drawing-room of the private hotel conducted by Mrs. Raithby Lawrence, whose husband, one learned from her frequent reiteration of the fact, had once occupied a distinguished post in the Merchant Service of his country.  The disturbance following upon the disappearance of the bracelet was evidently at its height.  There were at least a dozen people in the room, most of whom were standing up.  The central figure of them all was Mrs. Fitzgerald, large and florid, whose yellow hair with its varied shades frankly admitted its indebtedness to peroxide; a lady of the dashing type, who had once made her mark in the music-halls, but was now happily married to a commercial traveler who was seldom visible.  Mrs. Fitzgerald was talking.

“In respectable boarding-houses, Mrs. Lawrence,” she declared with great emphasis, “thefts may sometimes take place, I will admit, in the servants’ quarters, and with all their temptations, poor things, it’s not so much to be wondered at.  But no such thing as this has ever happened to me before—­to have jewelry taken almost from my person in the drawing-room of what should be a well-conducted establishment.  Not a servant in the room, remember, from the moment I took it off until I got up from the piano and found it missing.  It’s your guests you’ve got to look after, Mrs. Lawrence, sorry to say it though I am.”

Mrs. Lawrence managed here, through sheer loss of breath on the part of her assailant, to interpose a tearful protest.

“I am quite sure,” she protested feebly, “that there is not a person in this house who would dream of stealing anything, however valuable it was.  I am most particular always about references.”

“Valuable, indeed!” Mrs. Fitzgerald continued with increased volubility.  “I’d have you understand that I am not one of those who wear trumpery jewelry.  Thirty-five guineas that bracelet cost me if it cost a penny, and if my husband were only at home I could show you the receipt.”

Then there came an interruption of almost tragical interest.  Mrs. Fitzgerald, her mouth still open, her stream of eloquence suddenly arrested, stood with her artificially darkened eyes riveted upon the stolid, self-composed figure in the doorway.  Every one else was gazing in the same direction.  Tavernake was holding the bracelet in the palm of his hand.