“Who is he?” Marjorie wedged herself a little closer to Janet’s side. “I don’t know; some professional probably. What’s he giving to Captain Nichols?” peering intently down the room. Quickly Marjorie seized her opportunity. Her fingers deftly felt among the laces on Janet’s gown, unfastened the sunburst, and, concealing the diamond pin in her handkerchief, she fled swiftly upstairs again. On turning the knob of Mrs. Walbridge’s bedroom door she found it locked, and startled, leaned trembling against the panels. How was she to replace the sunburst in the jewel-box if she could not gain admission to the room? “My pin, please,” said a cold voice from behind her, and wheeling, she confronted Mrs. Walbridge. Mechanically Marjorie displayed the sunburst. “How----?” her voice died in her throat. “I came up to inquire how you were; found my jewel-box standing open, the sunburst missing, you gone----” Mrs. Walbridge shrugged her ponderous shoulders. “I locked my door to prevent a recurrence of----” she broke off on meeting Marjorie’s uncomprehending stare, and her harsh voice softened. “My affection for your aunt, Madame Yvonett, seals my lips, but I shall not receive you again--good-night.” Taking the sunburst from Marjorie’s nerveless hand, she secured it in her gown and returned to her guests, while slowly her meaning thrust itself on the bewildered, frightened girl. Marjorie watched Mrs. Walbridge in dumb agony; then made a hasty step forward as the older woman reached the head of the staircase. But a thought stayed her: if she told the truth she would expose Janet. Mrs. Walbridge had disappeared inside the ballroom when Marjorie, clinging tightly to the bannisters for support, made her slow way down the staircase. She paused an instant on the bottom landing. From the ballroom came a burst of laughter and round after round of applause, and Santa Claus, his empty sack slung across his shoulders, and his cheeks redder than ever, bounded into the square hall. Before dashing out of the front door, which a footman held open, he turned on his gay pursuers, and raising his voice above the clamor, called: “‘A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!’” CHAPTER X IN THE COLD, GRAY DAWN CHICHESTER BARNARD slipped off his evening coat and put on his smoking-jacket, and pausing in front of his chiffonier, gazed hungrily at a photograph of Marjorie Langdon leaning against his shaving-glass. The edges were cut evenly, and to the most casual eye it was obvious that the picture had been taken from a large silver frame from whose center smiled a speaking likeness of Janet Fordyce. Barnard picked up Marjorie’s photograph and studied it long and intently, and gradually the features assumed a life-like outline and the eyes a natural fire, so completely did her personality vitalize the inanimate photograph under his rapt attention. With a shudder he dropped it face downward.