Cyril Blakeney paused at the door; he had heard. "I told you that the clasp was bad, Sutton; I was afraid." "I do not remember your ladyship having mentioned it," said Sutton, acidly. "Your big bar, Den? The one I gave you last Christmas?" "Yes." Denise sipped the fiery spirit. "Telephone, Cyril; send a man round. The fastening was bad; search the car." "I do not think that we shall find it." Sir Cyril's face was very stern. He remembered seeing Esmé pressed close to his wife. In his heart he had no doubt the woman had stolen again. Esmé had been Denise's friend in time of trial. He could not give her into the hands of the police. He said nothing to his wife, but went down slowly, heavily, to write a note and send it round. And as fogs rise, so the whisper grew; Sir Cyril shrugged his shoulders when he spoke of the loss; he openly turned away from Esmé Carteret in the Park. "Someone, I fancy, took it from my wife when she felt faint; at a huge reception like that there are curious people. Lord Harrington noticed it as she came to supper." Sharp eyes had seen Esmé press close to Lady Blakeney, whisper to her; someone had noticed that she slipped something inside her dress. London must draw its skirts aside from this offender and suspect. CHAPTER XIV Spring again, dancing backwards from summer's hot grasp. Light winds whispering wantonly as they caressed the waking earth. Soft sunlight, and everywhere the scent of narcissi, the blaze of golden daffodils. The brown drawing-room had known no change during the passing months. It was as stiffly hideous as ever. The _Church Times_ and _Sunday Herald_ lay on the same table; the winter fires had been ordered away, and a vase of daffodils glowed yellow in the grate. "It would be good in Devonshire to-day." Bertie Carteret looked out at the dull, prim square, where the sooty trees were trying to grow green. "Lord! think of the great clean air there blowing in over the sea, and the flowers in the old spring garden; and here with spring there is dust, and there are always pieces of paper blowing round corners." Through a weary winter he had drawn the veil of friendship across love. Estelle's gentle face had brightened the world for him, a world which had grown very dark. "Poor boy," she said softly now; and there was no friendship in her voice. Spring called. She was a woman, weary of watching the game she might not join. The wanton voice of London was in her ears to-day--the sooty, dark square, the prim room stifled her. Your being of transient emotions has frittered so many thrills, so many little mockeries of passion, that one a little deeper matters little; but the hard-held nature frets at barriers, tears at its self-made bit as its longing eyes look at the wide fields it must not go into. To give nature the rein for once, to know the glory of loving. Man and woman, one giving, one possessing, both tasting the joys of the gods.