Unfastening a clasp, she held the jewel out. Seeing it, Denise felt her colour ebb until she feared her cheeks must be deathly white. It was the pendant she had given to Esmé. Why had the woman chosen this moment? "It's just like yours, Den"--Sir Cyril took the jewel in his big fingers--"exactly the same." "I love these dear old-fashioned solid things," babbled Lucy Richmond. "As it was heavy, it wasn't so dear. Benhusan told me he had just bought it, but that they had made it originally themselves." "Oh!" Sir Cyril sat down. "Yes. Bought it when, did you say?" A bore is a person stocked with date and detail. Lucy Richmond loved a listener. How interesting she was, she felt, as she re-clasped the ugly pendant. Oh, on such a day--at such an hour. Close by Denise sat listening, afraid to speak, hoping she was not showing her fear, her heart fluttering. "Yes. Curiously, my wife has a duplicate of this, one an old aunt gave to her. Wear yours to-night, Denise." "I hate it, Cyrrie," she faltered. "Yet wear it," he said very quietly, and strolled away. Sir Cyril never seemed to hurry. Denise, for the best reasons, could not wear the pendant. Wild thoughts shot through her head. Should she go to Mrs Richmond, borrow the diamonds, make up a story? No, for the gossiping fool would repeat it all over London. It was late when Denise came to her room; she sent her maid away, sat by the fire. It was so comfortable there; she was surrounded by rich things; her dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory; her bed was carved white wood, a nest of silken eider-down. And if Cyril knew. He came in then, quietly, walked to the fire and stood looking down at her. Some silences are harder to bear than words. Denise shivered nervously. "You did not wear the pendant to-night, Denise." "No," she said miserably. "Because you could not. Denise, why lie to me?" "I--I," she crouched down in her big chair, sick, frightened, wondering what lie might serve her best. "I know Benhusan," he said. "I rang him up at his own house. Den--Esmé Carteret took that pendant, and--you lied to screen her." The woman cowering in the chair turned as red as she had been pale, felt as some sinking swimmer who suddenly feels ground beneath his feet. "I saw her standing at your safe, opening and shutting cases. She thought you might never miss this thing, as she knew you hated it. Denise, I don't blame you; but one cannot know a thief. It was that, was it not?" Stronger people have taken their rescue at the cost of a friend's reputation. Denise was not strong; she was shallow-natured and afraid and shaken. "Oh, Cyril," she said, beginning to cry. "Oh! don't tell a soul. Oh, promise--promise! She wanted money so badly." "Money to spend upon herself, upon frocks and furs and entertainment. Den, she must not come to the house again. And this exonerates you from sending her gifts of money."