Bruce, a plaintive lady with a languid manner. Miss Kingston Bruce acknowledged their presence with a short inclination of the head. Her face was more sullen than ever.
Mrs. Kingston Bruce was voluble.
“—but I know who I think took it,” she ended. “That dreadful socialist young man. He loves the Russians and the Germans and hates the English—what else can you expect?”
“He never touched it,” said Miss Kingston Bruce fiercely. “I was watching him—all the time. I couldn’t have failed to see if he had.”
She looked at them defiantly with her chin up.
Tommy created a diversion by asking for an interview with Mrs. Betts. When Mrs. Kingston Bruce had departed accompanied by her husband and daughter to find Mrs. Betts, he whistled thoughtfully.
“I wonder,” he said gently, “who it was who had a teaspoon in her muff?”
“Just what I was thinking,” replied Tuppence.
Mrs. Betts, followed by her husband, burst into the room. She was a big woman with a determined voice. Mr. Hamilton Betts looked dyspeptic and subdued.
“I understand, Mr. Blunt, that you are a private inquiry agent, and one who hustles things through at a great rate?”
“Hustle,” said Tommy, “is my middle name, Mrs. Betts. Let me ask you a few questions.”
Thereafter things proceeded rapidly. Tommy was shown the damaged pendant, the table on which it had lain, and Mr. Betts emerged