The Coast of Chance | Page 4

that it has its food, what is
true, and what was the gallant part it played this afternoon?"
"Well," he followed her whimsical lead, "the chief detective and I were
the star performers. I found the ring wasn't there, and he found he
couldn't find it."
"Don't you know any more than the paper?" Flora mourned.
"Considerably less--if I know the papers." He grinned with a fine flash
of even teeth. "What do you want me to say?"
"Why, stupid, the adventures of Harry Cressy, Esquire. How did you
feel?"
"Thirsty."
"Oh, Harry!" She glanced about, as if for a missile to threaten him with.
"Upon my word! But look here--wait a minute!" he arrived deliberately
at what was required of him. "Never mind how I felt; but if you want to
know the way it happened--here's your Maple Room." He began a
diagram with forks on the cloth before him, and Clara, who had
watched their sparring from her point of vantage in the background,
now leaned forward, as if at last they were getting to the point.
"This is the case, furthest from the door." He planted a salt-cellar in his
silver inclosure. "I come in very early, at half-past two, before the
crowd; fail to meet you there." He made mischievous bows to right and
left. "I go out again. But first I see this ring."
"What was it like?" Flora demanded.
"Like?" Harry turned a speculative eye to the dull glow of the
candelabrum, as if between its points of flame he conjured up the
vision of the vanished jewel. "Like a bit of an old gold heathen god
curled round himself, with his head, which was mostly two yellow

sapphires, between his knees, and a big, blue stone on top. Soft, yellow
gold, so fine you could almost dent it. And carved! Even through a
glass every line of it is right." He paused and ran the tip of his finger
along the silver outline of his diagram, as if the mere memory of the
precious eyes of the little god had power to arrest all other
consideration. "Well, there he was," he pulled himself up, "and I can't
remember when a thing of that sort has stayed by me so. I couldn't
seem to get away from it. I dropped into the club and talked to Buller
about it. He got keen, and I went back with him to have another look at
it. Well, at the door Buller stops to speak to a chap going out--a crazy
Englishman he had picked up at the club. I go on. By this time there's a
crowd inside, but I manage to get up to the case. And first I miss the
spot altogether. And then I see the card with his name; and then,
underneath I see the hole in the velvet where the god has been."
Flora gave out a little sigh of suspense, and even Clara showed a gleam
of excitement. He looked from one to the other. "Then there were
fireworks. Buller came up. The detective came up. Everybody came up.
Nobody'd believe it. Lots of 'em thought they had seen it only a few
minutes before. But there was the hole in the velvet--and nothing more
to be found."
"But does no one know anything? Has no one an idea?" Clara almost
panted in her impatience.
"Not the ghost of a glimmer of a clue. There were upward of two
hundred of us, and they let us out like a chain-gang, one by one. My
number was one hundred and ninety-three, and so far I can vouch there
were no discoveries. It has vanished--sunk out of sight."
Flora sighed. "Oh, poor Bessie Chatworth!" It came out with a quick
inconsequence that made Clara--even in her impatience--ever so faintly
smile. "It seems so cruel to have your things taken like that when you're
dead, and can't help it," Flora rather lamely explained. "I should hate
it."
Harry stared at her. "Oh, come. I guess you wouldn't care." His eyes
rested for a moment on the fine flare of jewels presented by Flora's

clasped hands. "Besides,"--his voice dropped to a graver level--"the
deuce of it is--" he paused, they, both rather breathless, looking at him.
He had the air of a man about to give information, and then the air of a
man who has thought better of it. His voice consciously shook off its
gravity. "Well, there'll be such a row kicked up, the probability is the
thing'll be returned and no questions asked. Purdie's keen--very keen.
He's responsible, the executor of the estate, you see."
But Clara Britton leveled her eyes at him, as if the thing he had
produced was not at all the thing he had led up to. "Still, unless