“Do not misunderstand me,” he said hastily. “I will explain in a sentence. Your diamond necklace has been stolen from my safe.” “Stolen!” She went white. “Stolen,” said Mr. Warrell, “by a gang of burglars which has been engaged in its operations for the past twelve months in the City of London. You see, my dear Mrs. Cathcart,” he went on, “that it is a very embarrassing situation for both of us. I do not want my clients to know that I accept jewels from ladies as collateral security against differences, and you,” he was so rude as to point to emphasise his words, “do not, I imagine, desire your friends to know that it was necessary for you to deposit those jewels.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, I could have reported the matter to the police, sent out a description of the necklace, and possibly recovered the loss from an insurance company, but that I do not wish to do.” He might have added, this good business man, that his insurance policy would not have covered such a loss, for when premiums are adjusted to cover the risk of a stockbroker’s office, they do not as a rule foreshadow the possibility of a jewel robbery. “I am willing to stand the loss myself,” he continued, “that is to say, I am willing to make good a reasonable amount out of my own pocket, as much for your sake as for mine. On the other hand, if you do not agree to my suggestion, I have no other alternative than to report the matter very, very fully, _very_ fully,” he repeated with emphasis, “to the police and to the press. Now, what do you think?” Mrs. Cathcart might have said in truth that she did not know what to think. The necklace was a valuable one, and there were other considerations. Mr. Warrell was evidently thinking of its sentimental value, for he went on-- “But for the fact that jewels of this kind have associations I might suggest that your new son-in-law would possibly replace your loss.” She turned upon him with a hard smile. “My new son-in-law!” she scoffed. “Good Lord!” Warrell knew Standerton, and regarded him as one of Fortune’s favourites, and was in no doubt as to his financial stability. The contempt in the woman’s tone shocked him as only a City man can be shocked by a whisper against the credit of gilt-edged stock. For the moment he forgot the object of his visit. He would have liked to have asked for an explanation, but he felt that it did not lie within the province of Mrs. Cathcart’s broker to demand information upon her domestic affairs. “It is a pretty rotten mess you have got me into, Warrell,” she said, and got up. He rose with her, picked up his hat, and exhumed his buried gloves. “It is very awkward indeed,” he said, “tremendously awkward for you, and tremendously awkward for me, my dear Mrs. Cathcart. I am sure you will pity me in my embarrassment.” “I am too busy pitying myself,” she said shortly. She sat in the drawing-room alone after the broker’s departure.