gas out of a balloon.
“Where—where—where—” she gurgled.
“I got them from your friend, Miss Hemmingway.”
Even now she didn’t get it.
“From Miss Hemmingway. Miss Hemmingway ! But—but how did they come into her possession?”
“How?” I said. “Because she jolly well stole them. Pinched them! Swiped them! Because that’s how she makes her living, dash it—palling up to unsuspicious people in hotels and sneaking their jewellery. I don’t know what her alias is, but her bally brother, the chap whose collar buttons at the back, is known in criminal circles as Soapy Sid.”
She blinked.
“Miss Hemmingway a thief! I—I—”
She stopped and looked feebly at me. “But how did you manage to recover the pearls, Bertie dear?”
“Never mind,” I said crisply. “I have my