“It all happened the Sunday before last,” she began. “After a game of
bridge with some friends, I went to bed rather early and fell asleep as
usual. About four o’clock—at ten minutes past, to be exact—a noise woke
me and then I heard a bang which sounded to me like a door closing. It
came from my boudoir—this room we are in, which communicates with my
bedroom and also with a corridor leading to the servants’ staircase.
I’m not nervous, so after a moment’s hesitation I got up, came in here
and turned on the light. The room was empty, but this small
show-case”—she indicated it—“had fallen down, and several of the curios
and statuettes in it were broken. I then went to my husband’s room and
found him reading in bed; he said he had heard nothing. He was very
much upset and rang for the butler, who immediately made a thorough
search of the house. In the morning we called in the police.”

“And the result?” asked Barnett.

“They could find no trace of the arrival or departure of any intruder.
How he entered and got away is a mystery. But under a footstool among
the débris of the curios some one found half a candle, and an awl set
in a very dirty wooden handle. Now on the previous afternoon a plumber
had been to repair the taps of the washbasin in my husband’s
dressing-room. The man’s employer, when questioned, identified the tool
and, moreover, the other half of the candle was found in his shop.”

“On that point, then,” interrupted Jim Barnett, “you have definite
evidence.”

“Yes, but against that is the indisputable and disconcerting fact that
the investigation also proved that the workman in question took the six
o’clock express to Brussels, arriving there at midnight—four hours
before the disturbance which awakened me.”

“Really? Has the man returned?”

“No. They lost track of him at Antwerp, where he was spending money
lavishly.”

“Is that all you can tell me?”

“Absolutely all.”

“Who’s been in charge of this investigation?”

“Inspector Béchoux.”

“What! The worthy Béchoux! He’s a very good friend of mine. We’ve often
worked together.”

“It was he who mentioned your Agency.”

“Yes, because he’d come up against a blank wall, I suppose.”

Barnett crossed to the window and leaning his head against the pane
thought hard for a few minutes, frowning ponderously and whistling
under his breath. Then he returned to Madame Assermann and continued:

“You and Béchoux, madame, conclude that this was an attempted burglary.
Am I right?”

“Yes. An unsuccessful attempt, since nothing has been taken.”

“That’s so. But all the same there must have been a definite motive
behind this attempt. What was it?”

Valérie hesitated. “I really don’t know,” she said after a moment. But
again her foot tapped restlessly.

The detective shrugged his shoulders; then, pointing to one of the
silk-draped panels which lined the boudoir above the wainscoting he
asked:

“What’s under that panel?”

“I beg your pardon,” she said in some bewilderment; “what do you mean?”

“I mean that the most superficial observation reveals the fact that the
edges of that silk oblong are slightly frayed, and here and there they
are separated from the woodwork by a slit: there is every reason to
suppose that a safe is concealed there.”

Valérie gave a start. How on earth could the man have guessed from such
imperceptible indications…. Then with a jerk she slid the panel open,
disclosing a small steel door. As she feverishly worked the three knobs
of the safe an unreasoning fear came over her. Impossible as the
hypothesis seemed, she wondered whether this queer stranger might
somehow have robbed her during the few minutes he had been left alone
in the room!

At length, taking a key from her pocket, she opened the safe, and gave
a sigh of relief. There it was—the only object the safe contained—a
magnificent pearl necklace. Seizing it quickly, she twined its triple
strands round her wrist.

Barnett laughed.

“Easier in your mind now, madame la baronne? Yes, it’s quite a pretty
piece of jewelry, and I can understand its having been stolen from
you.”

“But it’s not been stolen,” she protested. “Even if the thief was after
this, he failed to steal it.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course. Here is the necklace in my hands. When anything’s stolen it
disappears. Well—here it is….”

“Here’s a necklace,” he corrected her quietly; “but are you sure that
it is your necklace and that it has any value?”

“What do you mean?” she asked in unconcealed annoyance. “Only a
fortnight ago my jeweller valued it at half a million francs.”

“A fortnight ago—that is to say, five days before that night…. And
now? Please remember I know nothing; I have not valued the necklace; it
is merely a supposition. But are you yourself entirely without
suspicion?”

Valérie stood quite still. What suspicion was he hinting at? In what
connection? A vague anxiety crept over her as his suggestion persisted.
As she weighed the mass of heaped-up pearls in her outstretched hand it
seemed to get lighter and lighter. As she looked she discovered
variations in coloring, unaccustomed reflections, a disturbing
unevenness, a changed graduation—each detail more disturbing than the
last, until in the back of her mind the terrible truth began to dawn,
distinct and threatening.

Jim Barnett gave vent to a short chuckle.