‘I found the house empty,’ he went on presently, recovering himself, ‘windows bolted and doors locked. I called her, and looked for her upstairs and down; but neither she nor the maid was at home. I was disappointed, of course; but I would not let myself be angry. I had told her I should be away till the end of the week, so she had a perfect right to go out if she wanted to. Finally I went into the drawing-room, meaning to wait there till she came in. But, somehow, I received a new impression of the house. It struck me as grubby, fusty, low-class. I wondered why I had never observed this before, or whether it was merely the effect of my disappointment at her absence. There were scraps of a torn-up letter on the carpet, for one thing, which I greatly disliked. I began to pick them up, and casually--I did not attempt to read it of course--I remarked the writing was in French. Then I thought I would smoke, to pass the time until she came back. I wanted something with which to cut off the end of my cigar, but found I had brought no penknife, so I rummaged in her little worktable for a pair of scissors. I could not find any in the top workbox part, and tried to pull out the square silk-covered drawer arrangement underneath, as I remembered often seeing her put her scissors away in it with her work. But the beastly thing was locked or jammed. Like a fool, I lost my temper over it, and dragged and poked till the catch gave and the drawer flew open. And--and, Brownlow, inside I saw a couple of white leather jewel-cases--oh! the whole thing was so incredible, such a profanation--it made me sick--stamped with a monogram and coronet. I recognised them at once. They belonged to my mother--own mother I mean’-- His tone grew fierce. ‘Not her Magnificence. Her hands have never touched, and touching defiled them, I am thankful to think.--These jewels would come to me, in the ordinary course of events, with certain other possessions of my mother’s, at my majority. Meanwhile they have always been kept in the strong-room at Hover. And, Brownlow--this is the point of the whole hateful business--they were among the valuables that scoundrel, Marsigli--you remember him, my step-mother’s beloved Italian butler?--made off with last year, and which by some to my mind incomprehensible stupidity on the part of the police--I have often talked it over with Fédore--have never yet been traced.’ ‘Were the contents of the cases intact?’ I asked. He hesitated.