“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
“Hello, Trevelyan!” she remarked in matter-of-fact tones. “Why this excitement?”
He shook hands with her ceremoniously.
“I ’ve come for Chilvers, of course,” said he. “I wanted to avoid any publicity at the dock. You received my Marconigram? Why have n’t you got on the necklace?”
She choked in spite of herself.
“I—I—” she stammered in a low tone. “I—have n’t got it!”
“Haven’t got it!” he cried aghast. “Haven’t got it! Why not? Where is it?”
“I have n’t declared it,” she answered. “Don't be cross with me! I shall manage. A friend of mine on the boat is going to bring it ashore for me.”
He looked at her in consternation. “You must be mad!” he whispered. “The Customs people know all about that necklace. It ’s historic. Its sale was reported next day by cable in New York. It used to belong to the Marquise de Villancourt. You must get it back at once and wear it in.”
“I wish I could,” she gasped. “But I ’m afraid it ’s too late!”
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