"Are you in the habit of kissing men you don't care for?"

"Yes, frequently," she told him, coolly taking the chair opposite; "I'm an actress--if you've forgotten the fact."

He pondered this, frowning. "I don't like it," he announced with conviction.

"Neither do I--always." She relished his exasperation for a moment longer, then changed her tone. "Do be sensible, Staff. I'm crazy to hear that play. How long do you mean to keep me waiting?"

He knew her well enough to understand that her moods and whims must be humoured like a--well, like any other star's. She was pertinaciously temperamental: that is to say, spoiled; beautiful women are so, for the most part--invariably so, if on the stage. That kind of temperament is part of an actress' equipment, an a.s.set, as much an item of her stock in trade as any trick of elocution or pantomime.

So, knowing what he knew, Staff took himself in hand and prepared to make the best of the situation. With a philosophic shrug and the wry, quaint smile so peculiarly his own, he stretched forth a hand to take up his ma.n.u.script; but in the very act, remembering, withheld it.

"Oh, I'd forgotten ..."

"What, my dear?" asked Alison, smiling back to his unsmiling stare.

"What made you send me that bandbox?" he demanded without further preliminary; for he suspected that by surprising the author of that outrage, and by no other method, would he arrive at the truth.

But though he watched the woman intently, he was able to detect no guilty start, no evidence of confusion. Her eyes were blank, and a little pucker of wonder showed between her brows: that was all.

"Bandbox?" she repeated enquiringly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he pursued with a purposeful, omniscient air, "the thing you bought at Lucille's, the day before we sailed, and had sent me without a word of explanation. What did you do it for?"

Alison relaxed and sat back in her chair, laughing softly. "Dear boy,"

she said--"do you know?--you're quite mad--quite!"

"Do you mean to say you didn't--?"

"I can't even surmise what you're talking about."

"That's funny." He pondered this, staring. "I made sure it was you.

Weren't you in London last Friday?"

"I? Oh, no. Why, didn't I tell you I only left Paris Sat.u.r.day morning?

That's why we had to travel all day to catch the boat at Queenstown, you know."

He frowned. "That's true; you did say so.... But I wish I could imagine what it all means."

"Tell me; I'm good at puzzles."

So he recounted the story of the bandbox incognito, Alison lending her attention with evident interest, some animation and much quiet amus.e.m.e.nt. But when he had finished, she shook her head.

"How very odd!" she said wonderingly. "And you have no idea--?"

"Not the least in the world, now that you've established an alibi. Miss Searle knows, but--"

"What's that?" demanded Alison quickly.

"I say, Miss Searle knows, but she won't tell."

"The girl who sat next to Bangs at lunch?"

"Yes--"

"But how is that? I don't quite understand."

"Oh, she says she was in the place when the bandbox was purchased--saw the whole transaction; but it's none of her affair, says she, so she won't tell me anything."

"Conscientious young woman," said Alison approvingly. "But are you quite sure you have exhausted every means of identifying the true culprit? Did you examine the box yourself? I mean, did you leave it all to the housemaid--what's her name--Milly?"

He nodded: "Yes."

"Then she may have overlooked something. Why take her word for it? There may be a card or something there now."

Staff looked startled and chagrined. "That's so. It never occurred to me. I am a bonehead, and no mistake. I'll just take a look, after we've run through this play."

"Why wait? Send for it now. I'd like to see for myself, if there is anything: you see, you've roused a woman's curiosity; I want to know.

Let me send Jane."

Without waiting for his consent, Alison summoned the maid. "Jane," said she, "I want you to go to Mr. Staff's stateroom--"

"Excuse me," Staff interrupted. "Find the steward named Orde and ask him for the bandbox I gave him to take care of. Then bring it here, please."

"Yes, sir," said Jane; and forthwith departed.

"And now--while we're waiting," suggested Alison--"the play, if you please."

"Not yet," said Staff. "I've something else to talk about that I'd forgotten. Manvers, the purser--"

"Good Heavens!" Alison interrupted in exasperation. She rose, with a general movement of extreme annoyance. "Am I never to hear the last of that man? He's been after me every day, and sometimes twice a day....

He's a personified pest!"

"But he's right, you know," said Staff quietly.

"Right! Right about what?"

"In wanting you to let him take care of that necklace--the what-you-may-call-it thing--the Cadogan collar."

"How do you know I have it?"

"You admitted as much to Manvers, and Mrs. Ilkington says you have it."

"But why need everybody know about it?"

"Enquire of Mrs. Ilkington. If you wanted the matter kept secret, why in the sacred name of the great G.o.d Publicity did you confide in that queen of press agents?"

"She had no right to say anything--"

"Granted. So you actually have got that collar with you?"