The Chink in the Armour | Page 3

for it consisted of a string of large and
finely-matched pearls.
As the two friends went upstairs after luncheon Madame Wolsky said
earnestly, "If I were you, Sylvia, I would certainly leave your pearls in
the office this afternoon. Where is the use of wearing them on such an
expedition as that to a fortune-teller?"
"But why shouldn't I wear them?" asked Sylvia, rather surprised.

"Well, in your place I should certainly leave anything as valuable as
your pearls in safe keeping. After all, we know nothing of this Madame
Cagliostra, and Montmartre is what Parisians call an eccentric quarter."
Sylvia Bailey disliked very much taking off her pearls. Though she
could not have put the fact into words, this string of pearls was to her a
symbol of her freedom, almost of her womanhood.
As a child and young girl she had been under the close guardianship of
a stern father, and it was to please him that she had married the rich,
middle-aged man at Market Dalling whose adoration she had endured
rather than reciprocated. George Bailey also had been a determined
man--determined that his young wife should live his way, not hers.
During their brief married life he had heaped on her showy, rather than
beautiful, jewels; nothing of great value, nothing she could wear when
in mourning.
And then, four months after her husband's death, Sylvia's own aunt had
died and left her a thousand pounds. It was this legacy--which her
trustee, a young solicitor named William Chester, who was also a
friend and an admirer of hers, as well as her trustee, had been proposing
to invest in what he called "a remarkably good thing"--Mrs. Bailey had
insisted on squandering on a string of pearls!
Sylvia had become aware, in the subtle way in which Women become
aware of such things, that pearls were the fashion--in fact, in one sense,
"the only wear." She had noticed that most of the great ladies of the
neighbourhood of Market Dalling, those whom she saw on those
occasions when town and county meet, each wore a string of pearls.
She had also come to know that pearls seem to be the only gems which
can be worn with absolute propriety by a widow, and so, suddenly, she
had made up her mind to invest--she called it an "investment," while
Chester called it an "absurd extravagance"--in a string of pearls.
Bill Chester had done his very best to persuade her to give up her silly
notion, but she had held good; she had shown herself, at any rate on
this one occasion, and in spite of her kindly, yielding nature, obstinate.

This was why her beautiful pearls had become to Sylvia Bailey a
symbol of her freedom. The thousand pounds, invested as Bill Chester
had meant to invest it, would have brought her in £55 a year, so he had
told her in a grave, disapproving tone.
In return she had told him, the colour rushing into her pretty face, that
after all she had the right to do what she chose with her legacy, the
more so that this thousand pounds was in a peculiar sense her own
money, as the woman who had left it her was her mother's sister,
having nothing to do either with her father or with the late George
Bailey!
And so she had had her way--nay, more; Chester, at the very last, had
gone to great trouble in order that she might not be cheated over her
purchase. Best of all, Bill--Sylvia always called the serious-minded
young lawyer "Bill"--had lived to admit that Mrs. Bailey had made a
good investment after all, for her pearls had increased in value in the
two years she had had them.
Be that as it may, the young widow often reminded herself that nothing
she had ever bought, and nothing that had ever been given her, had
caused her such lasting pleasure as her beloved string of pearls!
But on this pleasant June afternoon, in deference to her determined
friend's advice, she took off her pearls before starting out for
Montmartre, leaving the case in the charge of M. Girard, the genial
proprietor of the Hôtel de l'Horloge.
CHAPTER II
With easy, leisurely steps, constantly stopping to look into the windows
of the quaint shops they passed on the way, Sylvia Bailey and Anna
Wolsky walked up the steep, the almost mountainous byways and
narrow streets which lead to the top of Montmartre.
The whole population seemed to have poured itself out in the open air
on this sunny day; even the shopkeepers had brought chairs out of their
shops and sat on the pavement, gaily laughing and gossiping together in

the eager way Parisians have. As the two foreign ladies, both young,
both in their very different fashion