N an exceedingly bad temper, Henry Pettigrew Tibbutts descended the oaken staircase at Scropesby Grange. In his outward man only the enduring redness of his ears recalled the scene of violence which he had just enacted.
Henry had reached that stage in a man's life where the hot tide of youth is perilously near the ebb, where, though forty is still a threat, thirty is no more than a pleasing recollection. Already celibacy had placed its stamp upon inveterate bachelor habits. A comfortable private income, a satisfactorily unresponsible post in a government office, and most eligible bachelor quarters insured to Henry an existence which, he was now telling himself ruefully, should be proof against disturbance by the incompetence of a servant.
As Henry came downstairs to dinner, he asked himself wrathfully how a man recommended, as Merton had been, as an excellent valet, sober and honest, could bring himself to pack a bag without such indispensable articles as handkerchiefs and bedroom slippers. The absence of his own specially woven mouchoirs—which he imported from Paris—was brought home to him by the unfamiliar roughness of the handkerchief lent by his host. Life seemed very bitter to Henry Tibbutts as he descended to the lounge hall of the Ankervilles' big country house, prepared to take a most unfavorable view of the approaching dinner party and of his fellow guests. Most of the party were assembled round the open log fire when Henry made his entry. They were gathered about a pretty blond woman who was wearing a very elaborate jade green evening gown.
“Tibbutts,” cried Colonel Ankerville, on catching sight of Henry's tall form, “you're something of a judge in these matters. Just tell me what you think of these!”
And he held up something that gleamed and flashed in the firelight. It was a magnificent collar of emeralds. Henry took the necklace from his host and examined it curiously. The stones were superb, flawless in color and water, with all manner of strange lights fitfully flaming in their sea-green depths.
“I've never seen emeralds like these,” Henry exclaimed with something like veneration in his voice. “By the setting they look like oriental gems.”
Colonel Ankerville, a big man with red, good-humored face, handed the collar back to the pretty blonde.
“They are the Mohamet Ali emeralds, my boy!” he said. “Mrs, Studd-Bennett here has just been telling us about them. They were part of the collection of the mad Sultan of Egypt, and Mrs. Studd-Bennett's father bought them at the Mohamet Ali auction in Vienna. By the way, let me introduce you!”
And the pretty blonde allowed the colonel to clasp the collar round her shapely white throat and gave Harry a small warm hand. She was a fluffy little thing with large appealing eyes. Her chic was flawless.
“I'd like you to know my husband,” she said, and a clean-shaven, heavily built man with a square, rather grim jaw and a shock of iron-gray hair shuffled forward.
“Your emeralds are wonderful,” said Henry to the lady. “They must be extremely valuable. I never saw a finer collar!”
“Well, now, they are,” replied Mrs. Studd-Bennett, “and I can tell you I have all the trouble in the world to get John here ever to let me wear them. Why he didn't want me to bring them down to Scropesby even. Did you, John?”
“They're a bit of a worry, you know!” remarked her husband placidly. “My wife has not mentioned the fact, Mr. Tibbutts, that when we travel it is my job to carry her jewel case. She won't trust anybody else with it. And I don't like the responsibility. I've a bad habit of losing things!”
Susan Lady Stormbridge, a formidable dowager with a scraggy neck, intervened. Mrs. Ankerville wanted her to see the Mohamet Ali emeralds. Sir George Boldering, the judge, followed. Pretty Mrs. Studd-Bennett's gems were obviously destined to be the central topic of conversation over the week-end. Henry drifted away rather despondently. The Studd-Bennetts struck him as being quite ordinary people, and he had a horror of being bored.
The colonel brought him a cocktail and began to talk about the emeralds at once,
“It appears they are a famous set,” he said. “And they look devilish well on that little lady's neck, don't you think? Nice people, what?”
“Oh, quite,” answered Henry, stifling an inclination to yawn. Instead he sipped his cocktail.
“Who are they?”