The excitement of the escape over, Mr. Harbison and I remained on
terms of armed neutrality. And Max still hunted for Anne's
pearls, using them, the men declared, as a good excuse to avoid
tinkering with the furnace or repairing the dumb waiter, which
took the queerest notions, and stopped once, half-way up from the
kitchen, for an hour, with the dinner on it. Anyhow, Max was
searching the house systematically, armed with a copy of Poe's
Purloined Letter and Gaboriau's Monsieur LeCoq. He went through
the seats of the chairs with hatpins, tore up the beds, and
lifted rugs, until the house was in a state of confusion. And the
next day, the fourth, he found something--not much, but it was
curious. He had been in the studio, poking around behind the
dusty pictures, with Jimmy expostulating every time he moved
anything and the rest standing around watching him.

Max was strutting.

"We get it by elimination," he said importantly. "The pearls
being nowhere else in the house, they must be here in the studio.
Three parts of the studio having yielded nothing, they must be in
the fourth. Ladies and gentlemen, let me have your attention for
one moment. I tap this canvas with my wand--there is nothing up
my sleeve. Then I prepare to move the canvas--so. And I put my
hand in the pocket of this disreputable velvet coat, so. Behold!"

Then he gave a low exclamation and looked at something he held in
his hand. Every one stepped forward, and on his palm was the
small diamond clasp from Anne's collar!

Jimmy was apoplectic. He tried to smile, but no one else did.