"Were they?" said Craven.

"Were they!"

Braybrooke's tone just then really did rather suggest the world's governess.

"My dear fellow--yes, they were, to the tune of about fifty thousand pounds."

"What a dreadful business! Did she get them back?"

"No. She never even tried to. But, of course, it came out eventually."

"It seems to me that everything anyone wishes to hide does come out eventually in London," said Craven, with perhaps rather youthful cynicism. "But surely Lady Sellingworth must have wanted to get her jewels back. What can have induced her to be silent about such a loss?"

"It's a mystery. I have wondered why--often," said Braybrooke, gently stroking his beard.

He even slightly wrinkled his forehead, until he remembered that such an indulgence is apt to lead to permanent lines, whereupon he abruptly became as smooth as a baby, and added:

"She must have had a tremendous reason. But I'm not aware that anyone knows what it is unless--" he paused meditatively. "I have sometimes suspected that perhaps Seymour Portman--"

"Sir Seymour, the general?"

"Yes. He knows her better than anyone else does. He cared for her when she was a girl, through both her marriages, and cares for her just as much still, I believe."

"How were her jewels stolen?" Craven asked.

Braybrooke had roused his interest. A woman who lost jewels worth fifty thousand pounds, and made no effort to get them back, must surely be an extraordinary creature.

"They were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord out of a first-class compartment reserved for Adela Sellingworth. That much came out through her maid."

"And nothing was done?"

"I believe not. Adela Sellingworth is said to have behaved most fatalistically when the story came out. She said the jewels were gone long ago, and there was an end of it, and that she couldn't be bothered."

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