"I suppose that I ought to thank you," she said, still with
averted face and sullen manner. "You have really been very
decent. I am much obliged."

"Are you not coming down?" he asked.

"Not at present," she answered. "I am going to my room."

He looked around the landing on which they stood, at the
miserable, uncarpeted floor, the ill-painted doors on which the
long-forgotten varnish stood out in blisters, the jumble of
dilapidated hot-water cans, a mop, and a medley of brooms and
rags all thrown down together in a corner.

"But these are the servants' quarters, surely," he remarked.

"They are good enough for me; my room is here," she told him,
turning the handle of one of the doors and disappearing. The
prompt turning of the key sounded, he thought, a little
ungracious.

With the bracelet in his hand, Tavernake descended three more
flights of stairs and entered the drawing-room of the private
hotel conducted by Mrs. Raithby Lawrence, whose husband, one
learned from her frequent reiteration of the fact, had once
occupied a distinguished post in the Merchant Service of his
country. The disturbance following upon the disappearance of the
bracelet was evidently at its height. There were at least a
dozen people in the room, most of whom were standing up. The
central figure of them all was Mrs. Fitzgerald, large and florid,