No. He would give her the benefit of the doubt. He would wait, he would school himself to patience. Perhaps she would come back for it,--and explain. Perhaps he could find her by advertising it,--and get an explanation. Pending which, he could wait a little while. It was not his wish to pry into her secrets, even if--even if.... It was something to be smoked over.... Strange how it affected him to have in his hands something that she had owned and touched! Opening a drawer of the desk, Maitland produced an aged pipe. A brazen jar, companion piece to the ash receiver, held his tobacco. He filled the pipe from the jar, with thoughtful deliberation. And scraped a match beneath his chair and ignited the tobacco and puffed in contemplative contentment, deriving solace from each mouthful of grateful, evanescent incense. Meanwhile he held the charred match between thumb and forefinger. Becoming conscious of this fact, he smiled in deprecation of his absent-minded mood, looked for the ash-receiver, discovered it in place, inverted beneath the book; and frowned, remembering. Then, with an impatient gesture,--impatient of his own infirmity of mind: for he simply could not forget the girl,--he dropped the match, swept the book aside, lifted the bowl.... After a moment of incredulous awe, the young man rose, with eyes a-light and a jubilant song in the heart of him. Now he knew, now understood, now believed, and now was justified of his faith! After which depression came, with the consciousness that she was gone, for ever removed beyond his reach and influence, and that by her own wilful act. It was her intelligible wish that they should never meet again, for, having accomplished her errand, she had flown from the possibility of his thanks. It was so clear, now! He perceived it all, plainly. Somehow (though it was hard to surmise how) she had found out that Anisty had stolen the jewels; somehow (and one wondered at what risk) she had contrived to take them from him and bring them back to their owner. And Anisty had followed. Poor little woman! What had she not suffered, what perils had she not braved, to prove that there was honor even in thieves! It could have been at no inconsiderable danger,--a danger not incommensurate with that of robbing a tigress of her whelps,--that she had managed to filch his loot from that pertinacious and vindictive soul, Anisty! But she had accomplished it; and all for him! If only he could find her, _now!_ There was a clue to his hand in that bag, of course, but by this act she had for ever removed from him the right to investigate _that_. If he could only find that cabby. Perhaps if he tried at the Madison Square rank, immediately....