“Well--but,” Craven protested. “But surely she long ago retired from the fray! Isn’t she over sixty?” “She is about sixty. But that is nothing nowadays.” “No doubt she had a terrific career.” “Terrific! What do you mean exactly by terrific?” “Why, that she was what used to be called a professional beauty, a social ruler, immensely distinguished and smart and all that sort of thing. But I understood that she suddenly gave it all up. I remember someone telling me that she abdicated, and that those who knew her best were most surprised about it.” “A woman told you that, no doubt.” “Yes, I think it was a woman.” “Anything else?” “If I remember rightly, she said that Lady Sellingworth was the very last woman one had expected to do such a thing, that she was one of the old guard, whose motto is ‘never give up,’ that she went on expecting, and tacitly demanding, the love and admiration which most men only give with sincerity to young women long after she was no more young and had begun to lose her looks. Perhaps it was all lies.” “No, no. There is something in it.” He looked meditative. “It certainly was a sudden business,” he presently added. “I have often thought so. It came about after her return from Paris some ten years ago--that time when her jewels were stolen.” “Were they?” said Craven. “Were they!” Braybrooke’s tone just then really did rather suggest the world’s governess. “My dear fellow--yes, they were, to the tune of about fifty thousand pounds.” “What a dreadful business! Did she get them back?” “No. She never even tried to. But, of course, it came out eventually.” “It seems to me that everything anyone wishes to hide does come out eventually in London,” said Craven, with perhaps rather youthful cynicism. “But surely Lady Sellingworth must have wanted to get her jewels back. What can have induced her to be silent about such a loss?” “It’s a mystery. I have wondered why--often,” said Braybrooke, gently stroking his beard. He even slightly wrinkled his forehead, until he remembered that such an indulgence is apt to lead to permanent lines, whereupon he abruptly became as smooth as a baby, and added: “She must have had a tremendous reason. But I’m not aware that anyone knows what it is unless--” he paused meditatively. “I have sometimes suspected that perhaps Seymour Portman--” “Sir Seymour, the general?” “Yes. He knows her better than anyone else does. He cared for her when she was a girl, through both her marriages, and cares for her just as much still, I believe.” “How were her jewels stolen?” Craven asked. Braybrooke had roused his interest. A woman who lost jewels worth fifty thousand pounds, and made no effort to get them back, must surely be an extraordinary creature. “They were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord out of a first-class compartment reserved for Adela Sellingworth. That much came out through her maid.” “And nothing was done?”