Then there came an interruption of almost tragical interest.
Mrs. Fitzgerald, her mouth still open, her stream of eloquence
suddenly arrested, stood with her artificially darkened eyes
riveted upon the stolid, self-composed figure in the doorway.
Every one else was gazing in the same direction. Tavernake was
holding the bracelet in the palm of his hand.

"Thirty-five guineas!" he repeated. "If I had known that it was
worth as much as that, I do not think that I should have dared to
touch it."

"You--you took it!" Mrs. Fitzgerald gasped.

"I am afraid," he admitted, "that it was rather a clumsy joke. I
apologize, Mrs. Fitzgerald. I hope you did not really imagine
that it had been stolen."

One was conscious of the little thrill of emotion which marked
the termination of the episode. Most of the people not directly
concerned were disappointed; they were being robbed of their
excitement, their hopes of a tragical denouement were frustrated.
Mrs. Lawrence's worn face plainly showed her relief. The lady
with the yellow hair, on the other hand, who had now succeeded in
working herself up into a towering rage, snatched the bracelet
from the young man's fingers and with a purple flush in her
cheeks was obviously struggling with an intense desire to box his
ears.

"That's not good enough for a tale!" she exclaimed harshly. "I