"Oh," he said, lowering the candle and peering under the table. "Ah, here it is. So it isn't a dream! You have no idea how many times I have dreamed I was finding money--sovereigns, you know, and all that--and wakened at the psychological moment." He put his revolver on the table, took a bite of the sandwich and stared at me, at my gown, _and then at my pearls_. I fancied his eyes gleamed. I did not speak; I was listening with all my might for the car, but I could hear nothing but the patter of the rain on the flagstones outside. "I'm afraid I have startled you," he went on, still looking at me with uncomfortable intentness. "The fact is, I was asleep. I got in through a window an hour or so ago after a day and a night on the moor. I had no idea there was anybody here until you brushed past me in the dark." The moor! Then of course I knew. It had been dawning on me slowly. For all I could tell, he might have had the Romney under his coat at that moment. I put my hands to my throat for air because, although he was smiling and pleasant enough, everybody knows that the bigger the game a burglar makes a specialty of the more likely he is to look and act like a gentleman. So, because he seemed to expect me to do something, I unclasped my collar with shaking fingers and threw it to him across the table. "Oh, please take it and go away," I implored him. "It--it isn't imitation, anyhow, and Daphne says--the Romney was." "Oh," he said slowly, staring at the pearls, "so Daphne says the Romney was, eh?" He ran the collar through his fingers as if his conscience was troubling him a little. Then, "I wouldn't care to pit my judgment against that of a lady," he went on without even a word about the collar, "but--I think your friend Daphne is wrong." His eyes travelled comprehensively to the silver on the floor. "If you don't mind," he said whimsically--(this seems the only word, although--can a burglar be whimsical?)--"I wish you would tell me how you opened that cupboard door. It was locked an hour ago." "I dare say it was very unprofessional," I said boldly--for he didn't show any sign of trying to choke me, and my courage was returning, "but--I did it with a hairpin." "Ah!" He was thoughtful. "And--I suppose that is the way you opened the front entry door, also?" "No. Violet had a key----" I began. Then I stopped, furious at myself. He dropped the sandwich again and took a step forward with his eyes narrowed. "Violet!" he said. It seems extraordinary, looking back, to think I could have mistaken him for a thief when he was something else altogether. But that wasn't the only mistake I made. I could scream when I remember. He was not at all like his picture, and because I hadn't recognised him as Basil Harcourt, who hated The Cause, I had lost quantities of valuable time.