"Bless you, no. I shouldn't find it. She's got it safely hid. But when she finds her upper bureau drawer gone over--Esther's very methodical--and the next day her second drawer and the next day the shelves in her closet, why, then--" "What then?" asked Lydia, breathless. "Then, my dear, she'll get so nervous she'll put the necklace into a little bag and tell me she is called to New York. And she'll take the bag with her, if she's not prevented." "What should prevent her? the police?" "No, my dear, for after all I don't want the necklace so much as I want somebody to pay me solid money for it. But when the little bag appears, this is what I shall say to Esther, perhaps while she's on her way downstairs to the carriage. 'Esther,' I shall say, 'get back to your room and take that little bag with you. And make up to handsome Jeff and tell him he's got to stir himself and pay me something on account. And you can keep the diamonds, my dear, if you see Jeff pays me something.'" "She'd rather give you the diamonds," said Lydia. "My dear, she sets her life by them. Do you know what she's doing when she goes to her room early and locks the door? She's sitting before the glass with that necklace on, cursing God because there's no man to see her." "You can't know that," said Lydia. She was trembling all over. "My dear, I know women. When you're as old as I am, you will, too: even the kind of woman Esther is. That type hasn't changed since the creation, as they call it." "But I don't like it," said Lydia. "I don't think it's fair. She hates Jeff--" "Nonsense. She doesn't hate any man. Jeff's poor, that's all." "She does hate him, and yet you're going to make him pay money so she can keep diamond necklaces she never ought to have had." "Make him pay money for anything," said the old witch astutely, "money he's got or money he hasn't got. Set his blood to moving, I tell you, and before he knows it he'll be tussling for dear life and stamping on the next man and getting to the top." Lydia didn't want him to tussle, but she did want him at the top. She had not told Madame Beattie about the manuscript growing and growing on Jeff's table every night. It was his secret, his and hers, she reasoned; she hugged the knowledge to her heart. "That's all," said Madame Beattie, in that royal way of terminating interviews when she wanted to get back to literature. "Only when he begins to address his workingmen you tell me."