Ursula had only arrived a few minutes before Tab reached the Central Hotel, and the ban against reporters must have been lifted, because Ursula saw him immediately. She took the case from his hand slowly and with a face from whence all expression had fled. “Yes, this is mine,” she said. She lifted the lid. “Where are the jewels?” she asked quickly. “The police have those.” “The police?” “It was found in the strong-room of Jesse Trasmere, the old man who was murdered on Saturday afternoon,” said Tab. “Have you any idea how they came into his possession?” “None,” she said emphatically. “I did not know Mr. Trasmere.” He told her about the murder, but apparently she had already read the details and seemed loath to discuss the matter until he told her the part that he himself was taking in the tracking of the murderer. “Where did you find these?” she asked. “In his strong-room. The curious thing is, we turned out all the boxes, ran over all the papers and found nothing of importance. It was only by accident that we discovered this case. It was in a little drawer pushed far under one of the shelves.” “You went through all the papers,” she repeated mechanically. “What sort of papers--did he have--many?” “Quite a number,” said Tab, surprised that after definitely and decidedly changing the subject, she had returned to it voluntarily. “Old bills and accounts, copies of letters and that sort of thing. Nothing of any very great importance. Why do you ask?” “I had a friend once, a girl who was interested in Mr. Trasmere,” she answered. “She told me that he was keeping a number of documents connected with her family. No, I don’t remember her name. She was an actress I met on tour.” “There was nothing in his papers except purely business records,” said Tab. Tab was very sensitive to atmosphere. He could have sworn when he came into the room that she had keyed herself up to meet him. There was no reason why she should, except the reluctance to discuss the robbery, and she had maintained that tense attitude throughout the interview. Now he was as certain that she was relieved. He sensed, rather than saw, a relaxation of mind. Probably it was only his imagination, but imagination had never played such a trick upon him before. “When are the police going to give me my beautiful jewels?” she asked almost gaily. “I am afraid they will retain those until after the court proceedings are through. There must be an inquest, you know.” “Oh,” she said, and seemed disappointed. Then again she returned to the murder. “It seems all so dreadful and mysterious,” she said quietly. “How do you account for it, Mr. Holland? One of the newspapers says that it was impossible that any other hand than Mr. Trasmere’s could have locked the door and yet they are equally certain that he did not commit suicide. And who is the man Brown, for whom they are searching?” “He is an adventurer from China who was at some time or other a sort of secretary to old Trasmere.”