“Take it!” he cried, absolutely dancing. “It’s found, by God!” With the exclamation his face fell. The other had snapped open the box--a jeweller’s case, by every sign--and--it was empty. There was the depression in the green velvet for stone, trinket, what-not; but no stone was there, or anything but vacancy. They turned, tapped, felt the casket all over; finally, they looked at one another dismayed. “The stable,” groaned Tuke, “but the steed is gone.” He dashed down the useless shell, and with one impulse they both fell on their knees before the exposed recess. “Look!” whispered Sir David, in an awe-struck tone--“_his_ coat--Cutwater’s--the same he robbed and murdered in!” It would seem to be as he said. The historical garment--neatly folded and laid away--was of blue silk, cut in a bygone fashion, and its edges were richly crusted with filigree of tarnished silver lace. Tuke seized it out, and dangled it up to view. “’Twould be a treasure in itself to some,” he said. “I wonder will the spirit of the bloody cutpurse resent having its own pockets picked?” He was conscious of the least little thrill and tendency to an upward glance at the shelf as he plunged his hand into the bagging of the full skirts. Nothing was in them but a torn laced handkerchief--a mere little limp cobweb thing such as ladies use. The two men looked at one another with lowered, compassionate eyes. “He was spawn of the devil,” muttered Sir David. “Throw him his master’s livery again.” The coat was returned to the recess. The latter was empty of aught else; as was its double, which they found similarly sunk in the other half of the wardrobe. Their jubilance was changed to depression. The search, they felt, had yielded all it was like to. That the case had once held the famous gem they felt convinced; and equally of course the cunning scoundrel would never have committed its contents to so simply contrived a hiding-place. They were no nearer discovery than they had been any time that morning. As a matter of form they would closely examine every other article of furniture in the room; but they knew the result would be _nil_--as, indeed, it proved to be. They came down to dinner, tired and famished, and a little morose. Angela received them with a charming smile. “We meet you with empty hands,” said her host. “I hope you are not devoured with _ennui_?” “Oh!” she cried sprightlily--“if I am devoured, it is not with ennui. I am meat for its master.” “And who is that?” “Can you ask, sir! Why, Love, to be sure. I am fallen in love with Mr. Dennis. He hath entertained me since your going; and purely, believe me. Never was a figure more melancholy and romantic.” “I rejoice you have found amusement. Our morning has been fruitless.” “What--the stone? That does not concern me. I have discovered a rarer gem.” CHAPTER XXVII.