“I believe old Gilbert is a journalist in these days,” said Leslie. “I saw you the other night in Fleet Street, didn’t I?” “No,” replied Gilbert shortly. “Then it must have been your double,” said the other. Edith had not followed the party upstairs. Just before dinner Gilbert had asked her, with some hesitation, to make him up a packet of sandwiches. “I may be out the greater part of the night,” he said. “A man wants me to motor down to Brighton to meet somebody.” “Will you be out all night?” she had asked, a little alarmed. He shook his head. “No, I shall be back by four,” he said. She might have thought it was an unusual hour to meet people, but she made no comment. As her little party had gone upstairs she had remembered the sandwiches, and went down into the kitchen to see if cook had cut and laid them ready. She wrapped them up for him and packed them into a little flat sandwich case she had, and then made her way back to the hall. His coat was hanging on a rack, and she had to slip them into the pocket. There was a newspaper in the way; she pulled it out, and there was something else, something loose and uneven. She smiled at his untidiness, and put in her hand to remove the debris. Her face changed. What was it? Her fingers closed round the object in the bottom of the pocket, and she drew it out. There in the palm of her hand, clearly revealed by the electric lamp above her head, shone her diamond necklace! For a moment the little hall swayed, but she steadied herself with an effort. Her necklace! There was no doubt--she turned it over with trembling fingers. How had he got it? Where did it come from? A thought had struck her, but it was too horrible for her to give it expression. Gilbert a burglar! It was absurd. She tried to smile, but failed. Almost every night he had been out, every night in the week in which this burglary had been committed. She heard a footstep on the stairs, and thrust the necklace into the bosom of her dress. It was Gilbert. He did not notice her face, then-- “Gilbert,” she said, and something in her voice warned him. He turned, peering down at her. “What is wrong?” he asked. “Will you come into the dining-room for a moment?” she said. Her voice sounded far away to her. She felt it was not she who was speaking, but some third person. He opened the door of the dining-room and walked in. The table was spread with the debris of the dinner which had just been concluded. The rosy glow of the overhead lamp fell upon a pretty chaos of flowers and silver and glass. He closed the door behind him. “What is it?” he asked. “This,” she replied quietly, and drew the necklace from her dress. He looked at it. Not a muscle of his face moved. “That?” he said. “Well, what is that?” “My necklace!” “Your necklace,” he repeated dully. “Is that the necklace that your mother lost?” She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. “How very curious.”