"Put out the lights?" he said, rising, with his peculiar nervous movement of the fingers to the lips. "At once." Mr. Cheever, in rising, met the glance of his wife, and the look of questioning and wonder that passed did not escape the others. "But, my dear Mrs. Kildair," cried Nan Charters, with a little nervous catch of her breath, "what is it? I’m getting terribly worked up." "Miss Lille," said Mrs. Kildair’s undeviating voice of command, while Beecher placed his hand firmly over his companion’s, which had begun to open and shut in nervous tension. The journalist, more composed than the rest, had watched the proceedings from that shadowy calm which had made her presence almost unnoticed. Now, as though forewarned by professional instinct that something sensational was hanging on the moment, she rose quietly with almost a stealthy motion. "Put the candelabrum on this table—here," said Mrs. Kildair, after a long moment’s confrontation. She indicated the large round table on which the punch-bowl was set. "No, wait. Mr. Bloodgood, first clear off the table, cover and all; I want nothing on it." As Bloodgood started to remove the punch-bowl, Majendie rose quickly and took the heavy candelabrum from the hands of Maud Lille, saying: "Permit me; that’s rather heavy for you." "But, Mrs. Kildair—" began Mrs. Cheever’s voice, in shrill crescendo. Mrs. Kildair, as though satisfied by her examination of the journalist, nodded to Majendie, and, perceiving the mahogany table clear, said without notice of Mrs. Cheever: "Good! Now put the candelabrum down on it." In a moment, as Cheever proceeded lumberingly on his errand, the brilliant cross-fire of lights dropped away in the studio, only a few smoldering wicks winking on the walls, while the high ceiling seemed to recede as it came under the sole dominion of the three candles bracketed in silver at the head of the bare mahogany table. "Now listen!" said Mrs. Kildair, and her voice was cold and abrupt. "My ring has just been stolen!" She said it suddenly, hurling the news at them, and waiting ferret-like for some indication in the chorus that broke out. The hand that Beecher still grasped shot out from him as though it had been stung. For the first time, Slade, forgetting Majendie, wheeled brusquely and concentrated his glance on Mrs. Kildair, who listened unmoved to the storm of exclamations: "Stolen!" "Oh, my dear Mrs. Kildair, not that!" "Stolen—by Jove!" "Rita dear!" "What! Stolen—here—tonight?" "The ring has been taken in the last twenty minutes," continued Mrs. Kildair, in the same determined, chiseled accents. "I am not going to mince words. The ring has been taken, and one of you here is the thief. This is exactly the situation." For a moment nothing was heard but an indescribable gasp, while each, turning by an uncontrollable impulse, searched the face of his neighbors. Suddenly Slade’s deep bass broke out: "Stolen, Mrs. Kildair?"