"You brought them back for the sake of not going to jail," said Edna, her eyes flashing at him. He smiled gently. "Edna," he said, "as time goes on you learn nothing--absolutely nothing. Durland, when are you going to begin to grow? Good night, Albertson. Remember that you are a witness to this gift. Good night." And he had taken his departure before anyone spoke again. It was Durland who spoke first. His voice shook a little. "You see, mother," he said, "what a terrible injustice you have done Miss Exeter. She might sue you, only she's too generous. Oh, if you had only told me that my father had been about that day--only you never tell me anything, as if I were a baby. You will apologize to her, won't you?" "I do not seem to be likely to get the chance of speaking to her at all," said Edna, glancing at the closed door. Cora Wellington rose to her feet. "I'm sorry to be inhospitable, Edna," she said, "but I have had a long, hard day attending to your business, and I want to go to bed. In fact, I think I'll go." And she walked firmly out of the room and upstairs, where, since the house--like the Conways'--was lightly built, she could be heard rapidly walking about on her heels in the room immediately overhead. "Well," said Mr. Albertson, "It looks like I may as well be getting back to the Great White Way myself. I congratulate you on the happy termination of this affair, Mrs. Conway. I do not think that emerald is genuine, but I presume it is the sentiment that will appeal to you. I feel as happy as you do that that sweet young lady is as innocent as a baby." It cannot be said that Edna looked particularly happy over this point. She raised her shoulders. "But we don't know yet who she is. She certainly is not Miss Exeter." Albertson smiled. "You will find it was just a girlish prank," he said. "And I think we may presume that Mr. Wood now knows the whole story. I think if you'll permit me I'll call my assistant and we will get the car and be off." Mrs. Conway, once again wearing her pearls, and Durland, still talking of apologies, accompanied Mr. Albertson back to the other house. So the room was empty. Gradually it seemed to lose even the remembrance of its late occupants. The down cushion of the chair in which Edna had been sitting rose softly to its accustomed level with something like a sigh of relief. A wicker sofa, of stiffer nature, creaked in every fibre. A drooping flower in a glass vase gave a little shiver and shed every last petal on the table, as if it had been waiting all the evening to do this. Even the window curtains ceased swaying in the sea-breeze. It was as if the room and everything in it settled down to a breathless expectancy.