"Old Susan, Cyrrie's aunt, sent it to me when she heard I was a mother." Denise laughed. "Green said it was worth three hundred. I've loads of others, and no one will miss this. I'll get you the notes." Denise was friendly again, more like her old self, but moved, as Esmé knew, by fear, and not by gratitude or love. Denise was called to the telephone. Esmé was left alone for a time in the luxurious bedroom, standing by the open safe, enviously fingering the jewels. How lovely they were. A necklace of diamonds and emeralds; Cartier work; a jewelled snake with ruby eyes. A rope of pearls. Sapphires, opals, emeralds, all glowing as Esmé opened the cases. "Oh, I thought her ladyship was here, mem," the maid had come in quietly. Esmé turned with a start. "Her ladyship went to the telephone." Esmé closed her hand about the pendant, which she had been holding carelessly. She could see the maid watching her covertly. "Oh, there you are, Denise." Esmé still held the heavy pendant, afraid to put it in her bag before the maid, afraid to show it. "Yes. I'm late too. Cyril's waiting. We're lunching out. My hat, Sutton, my veil, quickly!" Esmé slipped the pendant into her bag as the maid turned away. The Blakeneys drove her to Jules, where she said she would be lunching. But, not hungry, she went on to Benhusan, a well-known jeweller, offering her pendant. The head man took it, looking at the heavy stones. "Yes, we could give two hundred for this, to break up. It's tasteless." He examined it carefully. "Came from us, originally," he said. "We all have our private mark, madam. Made to order, no doubt. I'll speak to Mr Benhusan, madam. One moment." Esmé flushed with annoyance. They might look up the pendant, perhaps speak of it to someone. She got two hundred and thirty for it and went out. Mr Benhusan nodded at the heavy bauble. "It was made for the Dowager Lady Blakeney," he said. "I remember it. The centre stone is worth all the money we have given for it." Absently, with a lack of her usual shrewdness, Esmé went to the door, opened it, and remembered her notes; they had paid her. She had put three into her bag, when a thin hand shot out, grabbed the rest, and before she could even cry out, the thief was lost in the crowd. Esmé stood stricken, shaking more with futile anger than anything else. Her brains were quick. If she went back, raised the hue and cry, what then? Bertie would ask her what pendant she was selling. The whole thing would come out.