The mysterious Mr. Quin
effect at once--a sort of far-away look that went to your very soul."
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent. He was remembering.
Mr. Tomlinson opposite cleared his throat preparatory to entering into
conversation.
"You produce plays, I hear, eh? I'm fond of a good play myself. _Jim
the Penman_, now; that was a play."
"My God," said Mr. Vyse, and shivered down all the long length of him.
"A tiny clove of garlic," said Miss Nunn to the Duchess. "You tell your
cook. It's wonderful."
She sighed happily and turned to her husband. "Henry," she said
plaintively, "I've never even _seen_ the caviar."
"You're as near as nothing to sitting on it," returned Mr. Judd
cheerfully. "You put it behind you on the chair."
Rosina Nunn retrieved it hurriedly, and beamed round the table.
"Henry is too wonderful. I'm so terribly absent-minded. I never know
where I've put anything."
"Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag," said Henry
jocosely. "And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit
of wiring and phoning that day."
"They were insured," said Miss Nunn dreamily. "Not like my opal." A
spasm of exquisite heart-rending grief flitted across her face.
Several times, when in the company of Mr. Quin, Mr. Satterthwaite had
had the feeling of taking part in a play. This illusion was with him
very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words
"my opal" were his own cue. He leaned forward.
"Your opal, Miss Nunn?"
"Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was
stolen, you know. And I never got it back."
"Do tell us," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Well--I was born in October--so it's lucky for me to wear opals,
and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for
it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very
large--about the size of a two-shilling piece--but oh! the color and
the fire."
She sighed. Mr. Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting
and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She
went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story
sound like some mournful saga of old.
"It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays."
"Very good plays," put in Mr. Vyse professionally. "Why, I once kept
one of his plays six months."
"Did you produce it?" asked Mr. Tomlinson.
"Oh! _no_," said Mr. Vyse, shocked at the idea. "But do you know, at
one time I actually thought of doing so?"
"It had a wonderful part in it for me," said Miss Nunn. "_Rachel's
Children_, it was called--though there wasn't anyone called Rachel in
the play. He came to talk to me about it--at the theater. I liked him.
He was nice-looking--and very shy, poor boy. I remember"--a beautiful
far-away look stole over her face--"he brought me some peppermint
creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He'd been out in
Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the
light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket
then. I missed it as soon as he'd gone. There _was_ a to-do. You
remember?"
She turned to Mr. Vyse.
"Oh! I remember," said Mr. Vyse with a groan.
"They found the empty case in his rooms," continued the actress. "He'd
been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay a large
sum into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a
friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn't
produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by
mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don't you? He
might have thought of something better than that. I had to go and give
evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent
said it was very good publicity--but I'd much rather have had my opal
back."
She shook her head sadly.
"Have some preserved pineapple?" said Mr. Judd.
Miss Nunn brightened up. "Where is it?"
"I gave it to you just now."
Miss Nunn looked behind her and in front of her, eyed her gray silk
_pochette_, and then slowly drew up a large purple silk bag that was
reposing on the ground beside her. She began to turn the contents out
slowly on the table, much to Mr. Satterthwaite's interest.
There was a powder puff, a lipstick, a small jewel case, a skein of
wool, another powder puff, two handkerchiefs, a box of chocolate
creams, an enameled paper knife, a mirror, a little dark brown wooden
box, five letters, a walnut, a small square of mauve crepe de Chine,
a piece of ribbon, and the end of a _croissant_. Last of all came the
preserved pineapple.
"_Eureka_," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite softly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Satterthwaite hastily. "What a charming paper
knife."
"Yes, isn't it? Somebody gave it to me. I can't remember who."
"That's an Indian box," remarked Mr. Tomlinson. "Ingenious little
things, aren't they?"
"Somebody gave me that too," said Miss Nunn. "I've had it a long time.
It used always to stand on my dressing-table at the theater. I don't
think it's very pretty, though, do you?"
The box was of plain dark brown wood. It pushed open from the side. On
the top of it were two plain flaps of wood that could be turned round
and round.
"Not pretty perhaps," said Mr. Tomlinson with a chuckle. "But I'll bet
you've never seen one like it."
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward. He had an excited feeling. "Why did
you say it was ingenious?" he demanded.
"Well, isn't it?"
The judge appealed to Miss Nunn. She looked at him blankly.
"I suppose I mustn't show them the trick of it--eh?"
Miss Nunn still looked blank.
"What trick?" asked Mr. Judd.
"God bless my soul, don't you know?"
He looked round the inquiring faces.
"Fancy that now. May I have the box a minute? Thank you."
He pushed it open.
"Now then, can anyone give me something to put in it--not too big.
Here's a small piece of Gruyère cheese. That will do capitally. I place
it inside, shut the box."
He fumbled for a minute or two with his hands.
"Now see--"
He opened the box again. It was empty.
"Well, I never," said Mr. Judd. "How do you do it?"
"It's quite simple. Turn the box upside down, and move the left-hand
flap halfway round, then shut the right-hand flap. Now to bring our
piece of cheese back again we must reverse that. The right-hand flap
halfway round, and the left one closed, still keeping the box upside
down. And now--Hey, presto!"
The box slid open. A gasp went round the table. The cheese was
there--but so was something else. A round thing that blinked forth
every color of the rainbow.
"_My opal!_"
It was a clarion note. Rosina Nunn stood upright, her hands clasped to
her breast.
"My opal! But how did it get there?"
Henry Judd cleared his throat. "I--er--I rather think, Rosy, my girl,
you must have put it there yourself."
Someone got up from the table and blundered out into the air. It was
Naomi Carlton-Smith. Mr. Quin followed her.
"But when? Do you mean--"
Mr. Satterthwaite watched her while the truth dawned on her. It took
over two minutes before she got it.
"You mean last year--at the theater."
"You know," said Henry apologetically. "You _do_ fiddle with things,
Rosy. Look at you with the caviar today."
Miss Nunn was painfully following out her mental processes. "I just
slipped it in without thinking, and then I suppose I turned the box
about and did the thing by accident, but then--but then--" At last
it came. "But then Alec Gerard didn't steal it after all. Oh!"--a
full-throated cry, poignant, moving--"how dreadful!"
"Well," said Mr. Vyse, "that can be put right now."
"Yes, but he's been in prison a year." And then she startled them. She
turned sharply on the Duchess. "Who is that girl--that girl who has
just gone out?"
"Miss Carlton-Smith," said the Duchess, "was engaged to Mr. Gerard.
She--took the thing very hard."
Mr. Satterthwaite stole softly away. The snow had stopped. Naomi was
sitting on the stone wall. She had a sketchbook in her hand, and some
colored crayons were scattered round. Mr. Quin was standing beside her.
She held out the sketchbook to Mr. Satterthwaite. It was a very rough
affair--but it had genius. A kaleidoscopic whirl of snowflakes with a
figure in the center.
"Very good," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
Mr. Quin looked up at the sky. "The storm is over," he said. "The roads
will be slippery, but I do not think there will be any accident--now."
"There will be no accident," said Naomi. Her voice was charged with
some meaning that Mr. Satterthwaite did not understand. She turned and
smiled at him--a sudden dazzling smile. "Mr. Satterthwaite can drive
back with me if he likes."
He knew then to what length desperation had driven her.
"Well," said Mr. Quin, "I must bid you good-by."
He moved away.
"Where is he going?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, staring after him.
"Back where he came from, I suppose," said Naomi in an odd voice.
"But--but there isn't anything there," said Mr. Satterthwaite, for Mr.
Quin was making for that spot on the edge of the cliff where they had
first seen him. "You know you said yourself it was the world's end."
He handed back the sketchbook.
"It's very good," he said. "A very good likeness. But why--er--why did
you put him in fancy dress?"
Her eyes met his for a brief second.
"I see him like that," said Naomi Carlton-Smith.
THE VOICE IN THE DARK
"I am a little worried about Margery," said Lady Stranleigh. "My girl,
you know," she added.
She sighed pensively. "It makes one feel terribly old to have a
grown-up daughter."
Mr. Satterthwaite, who was the recipient of these confidences, rose to
the occasion gallantly. "No one could believe it possible," he declared
with a little bow.
"Flatterer," said Lady Stranleigh, but she said it vaguely and it was
clear that her mind was elsewhere.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at the slender white-clad figure in some
admiration. The Cannes sunshine was searching, but Lady Stranleigh
came through the test very well. At a distance the youthful effect
was really extraordinary. One almost wondered if she were grown up
or not. Mr. Satterthwaite, who knew everything, knew that it was
perfectly possible for Lady Stranleigh to have grown-up grandchildren.
She represented the extreme triumph of art over nature. Her figure
was marvelous, her complexion was marvelous. She had enriched many
beauty parlors and certainly the result was astounding. Lady Stranleigh
lighted a cigarette, crossed her beautiful legs, encased in the finest
of nude stockings, and murmured:
"Yes, I really am rather worried about Margery."
"Dear me," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "what is the trouble?"
Lady Stranleigh turned her beautiful blue eyes upon him. "You have
never met her, have you? She is Charles's daughter," she added
helpfully.
If entries in _Who's Who_ were strictly truthful, the entry concerning
Lady Stranleigh might have ended as follows: _hobbies: getting
married_. She had floated through life shedding husbands as she went.
She had lost three by divorce and one by death.
"If she had been Rudolf's child I could have understood it," mused Lady
Stranleigh. "You remember Rudolf? He was always temperamental. Six
months after we married I had to apply for those queer things--what
do they call them? Conjugal whatnots, you know what I mean. Thank
goodness it is all much simpler nowadays. I remember I had to write
him the silliest kind of letter--my lawyer practically dictated it
to me. Asking him to come back, you know, and that I would do all I
could, etc., etc., but you never could count on Rudolf, he was so
temperamental. He came rushing home at once, which was quite the wrong