Читать книгу The Carcellini Emerald, With Other Tales онлайн

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“It is all over; I was not even singed, mamma, thanks to Mr. Oliver,” called out Gertrude to her mother, who had just perceived the commotion. At once the inexorable law of conventional society closed upon the little incident. People resumed their interrupted chat, the servants circled the board as before, everybody had some anecdote to relate about a narrow escape from burning that had come under his experience.

And then, amid the murmur of voices, the tinkle of glasses, the strains from an orchestra that had begun to play a waltz upon the upper landing of the stairs, Gertrude Ellison turned upon Carmichael a perfectly blanched face.

“Don’t give any sign,” she whispered, “but tell me what I am to do. I have lost the Carcellini emerald.”

Carmichael darted one swift glance toward Tom Oliver, like the tongue of a toad flashing out to catch a fly and withdrawing with its morsel.

“He knows nothing,” she went on, petulantly. “He has been listening all this time to an interminable story Annie Cowper has been telling him. Who cares about her great-grandaunt’s feathers catching fire from the chandelier at a Colonial ball? I suppose the ring slipped off down the satin of my skirt, and has rolled under the table. I can’t make a fuss now, but I won’t leave this spot while another person remains in the room after me.”