“It was when I was going around on the second floor, looking at the pajamas, that grandmother heard me and called me into her room. She said I’d been right about the safe not being a safe place for the necklace, so she was going to give it to me to hide. Only I was to promise not to tell any one in the house that she’d done it, nor where the necklace was, of course. But you see, you aren’t in the house, so the secret doesn’t include you.” I won’t pretend to have been satisfied that this bit of casuistry was strong enough to bear, but my curiosity was much wider awake, just then, than my conscience. I made no protest, and neither did Mr. Smith. The boy went on: “Mother came in just after Gran had given it to me and asked her where it was, and Gran told her it was in the safe. She’d had me put the box back in the safe and lock the safe up, but of course the box was empty. Mother asked her when she was going to give the necklace to Judy, and Gran said she would when she got ready. She always gets kind of cross when you ask her a lot of questions. So mother saw it was no good asking more and went away. And there I had it all the time.” “Where did you hide it?” Mr. Smith asked. Punch was thoroughly enjoying himself now, there could be no doubt of that. The unjust accusations of his mother and Uncle Alec and old Digs he could afford to ignore in the face of this magnificent compensation. “Why, I thought of lots of places,” he said, “that would probably have been all right, but I didn’t like them somehow, and then I thought about _The Purloined Letter_--you know, that story of Poe’s. How the safest hiding-place for anything is the last place where any one would think of looking for it. So I just wrapped the necklace up in a handkerchief and stuck it in my pocket.” “Good lord!” I cried. “Is that where it is now?” “Surely it is,” old Mr. Smith remarked calmly. “Hence the rifle.” Punch flushed a little. “Of course it’s only a twenty-two,” he said, “but it’s got a long cartridge in it.” At first blush the idea of entrusting a famous jewel like the Corbin necklace to the trousers pocket of a thirteen-year-old boy armed with a little target rifle seemed wild enough, and when one added that an inexplicable attempt had just been made to steal it, an attempt that might be repeated at any hour, day or night, it became perfectly frantic. I didn’t care much about the necklace, but I cared immensely about the boy. He was looking eagerly into my face, and must have read the consternation that was printed plain upon it. “Can you think of a safer place?” he asked. “Of course I suppose I could give it to you to keep for me.” “Heaven forbid!” I cried. “But there must be some other....” I let the sentence fade out unfinished, and lapsed into a thoughtful silence. I couldn’t think of anything better, and that was the truth. “It’s years since I’ve seen that string of pearls,” Mr. Smith said presently. “Let’s have a look at them, Punch.”