The actress had put up, in accordance with her custom, at a handsome, expensive and world-famous hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of Staff's rooms. Consequently he found himself in her presence within fifteen minutes from the end of their talk by telephone. Dressed for the street and looking uncommonly handsome, she was waiting for him in the sitting-room of her suite. As he entered, she came forward and gave him a cool little hand and a greeting as cool. He received both with an imperturbability founded (he discovered to his great surprise) on solid indifference. It was hard to realise that he no longer cared for her, or whether she were pleased or displeased with him. But he didn't. He concluded, not without profound amazement, that his passion for her which had burned so long and brightly had been no more than sentimental incandescence. And he began to think himself a very devil of a fellow, who could toy with the love of women with such complete insouciance, who could off with the old love before he had found a new and care not a rap!... Throughout this self-analysis he was mouthing commonplaces--assuring her that the day was fine, that he had never felt better, that she was looking her charming best. Of a sudden his vision comprehended an article which adorned the centre-table; and words forsook him and his jaw dropped. It was _the_ bandbox: not that which he had left, with its cargo of trash, in his rooms. Alison followed his glance, elevated her brows, and indicated the box with a wave of her arm. "And what d' you know about that?" she enquired bluntly. "Where did it come from?" he counter-questioned, all agape. "I'm asking you." "But--I know nothing about it. Did Miss Searle send it--?" "I can't say," replied the actress drily. "Your name on the tag has been scratched out and mine, with this address, written above it." Staff moved over to the table and while he was intently scrutinising the tag, Alison continued: "It came by messenger about eight this morning; Jane brought it to me when I got up a little while ago." "The hat was in it?" he asked. She nodded impatiently: "Oh, of course--with the lining half ripped out and the necklace missing." "Curious!" he murmured. "Rather," she agreed. "What do you make of it?" "This address isn't her writing," he said, deep in thought. "Oh, so you're familiar with the lady's hand?" There was an accent in Alison's voice that told him, before he looked, that her lip was curling and her eyes were hard. "This is a man's writing," he said quietly, wondering if it could be possible that Alison was jealous. "Well?" she demanded. "What of it?" "I don't know. Miss Searle got me on the telephone a little after one last night; she said she'd found the necklace in the hat and was bringing it to me." "How did she know it was mine?" "Heard you order it sent to me, in London. You'll remember my telling you she knew." "Oh, yes. Go on."