her first freedom to knock, dressed in her best and armed with her disclosure, at the door of her doubting kinsman. It was still with doubt and not quite with the face she had hoped that he listened to her story. He had turned pale, she thought, as she produced the necklace, and he appeared, above all, disagreeably affected. Well, perhaps there was reason, she more than ever remembered; but what on earth was one, in close touch with the fact, to do? She had laid the pearls on his table, where, without his having at first put so much as a finger to them, they met his hard, cold stare.
'I don't believe in them,' he simply said at last.
'That's exactly, then,' she returned with some spirit, 'what I wanted to hear!'
She fancied that at this his colour changed; it was indeed vivid to her afterwards—for she was to have a long recall of the scene—that she had made him quite angrily flush. 'It's a beastly unpleasant imputation, you know!'—and he walked away from her as he had always walked at the vicarage.
'It's none of my making, I'm sure,' said Charlotte Prime. 'If you're afraid to believe they're real———'
'Well?'—and he turned, across the room, sharp round at her.
'Why, it's not my fault.'
He said nothing more, for a moment, on this; he only came back to the table. 'They're what I originally said they were. They're rotten paste.'
'Then I may keep them?'
'No. I want a better opinion.'
'Than your own?'
'Than your own.' He dropped on the pearls another queer stare, then, after a moment, bringing himself to touch them, did exactly what she had herself done in the presence of Mrs. Guy at Bleet—gathered them together, marched off with them to a drawer, put them in and clicked the key. 'You say I'm afraid,' he went on as he again met her; 'but I shan't be afraid to take them to Bond Street.'
