Kissam disclaimed all desire for reward. His professional pride was justified; he had made good to his own satisfaction. And, as he had said, the case presented no startling novelty to his seasoned experience. Many times he had helped distracted families to suppress ugly revelations, presented an impregnable front to the press, and seen, with a cynical amusement, columns shrink to paragraphs and the public’s curiosity fade to the vanishing point. He promised he would aid in the slow quenching of the Janney sensation, gradually let it flicker out, keep his men on the job for a while longer for Mrs. Janney’s benefit, and finally let the matter decline to the status of an "unsolved mystery." As to the restoration of the jewels he gave advice. Say nothing for a time, sit quiet and give no sign. If she was as thoroughly scared as she ought to be, she would probably return them—they would wake one fine morning and find everything back in the safe. If, however, she tried to realize on them it would be easy to trace them—he would be on the watch—and then Mr. Janney could confront her with his knowledge and have her under his thumb forever. Mr. Janney was extremely grateful—not at the prospect of having Suzanne under his thumb, that was too complete a reversal of positions to be comfortable—but at the detective’s kindly comprehension and aid. With tears in his eyes he wrung Kissam’s hand and honored him by a personal escort to the front door. CHAPTER VII—CONCERNING DETECTIVES Kissam kept his word and the interest in the Janney robbery began to languish. Detectives still came and went, morning trains still disgorged reporters, but it was not as it had been. The first, fine careless rapture of the chase was over; nothing new was discovered, nothing old developed. The house settled back to its methodical régime, the faces of its inmates lost their looks of harassed distress. Mr. Janney, though much pacified, was not yet restored to his normal poise. His wife was now the object of his secret attention, for he knew her to be a very sharp and observant person, and the fear that she might "catch on" haunted him. It was therefore very upsetting when she remarked one morning at breakfast that "those men didn’t seem to be doing much. They were just where they had been ten days ago." He tried to reassure her—it would be a long slow affair—didn’t she remember the James case, where a year after the theft the jewels were found under the skin of a ham hanging in the cellar? Mrs. Janney was not appeased, she scoffed at the ham, and said the detectives were the stupidest body of men in the country outside Congress. She was going to offer a reward, ten thousand dollars—and then she muttered something about "taking a hand herself." In answer to Mr. Janney’s alarmed questions she quieted down, laughed, and said she didn’t mean anything.