He might be excused for not recognizing her. Rosina Nunn was volatile in her tastes. For twenty-five years of her life she had been a blonde. After a tour in the States, she had returned with the locks of the raven, and she had taken up tragedy in earnest. This "French Marquise" effect was her latest whim.
"Oh! by the way, Mr. Judd--Miss Nunn's husband," said Vyse, carelessly introducing the man with the bald head.
Rosina Nunn had had several husbands, Mr. Satterthwaite knew. Mr. Judd was evidently the latest.
Mr. Judd was busily unwrapping packages from a hamper at his side. He addressed his wife. "Some more _pâté_, dearest. That last wasn't as thick as you like it."
Rosina Nunn surrendered her roll to him, as she murmured simply, "Henry thinks of the most enchanting meals. I always leave the commissariat to him."
"Feed the brute," said Mr. Judd, and laughed. He patted his wife on the shoulder.
"Treats her just as though she were a dog," murmured the melancholy voice of Mr. Vyse in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear. "Cuts up her food for her. Odd creatures, women."
Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Quin between them unpacked lunch. Hard-boiled eggs, cold ham, and Gruyère cheese were distributed round the table. The Duchess and Miss Nunn appeared to be deep in murmured confidences. Fragments came along in the actress's deep contralto.
"The bread must be very lightly toasted, you understand? Then just a _very_ thin layer of marmalade. Rolled up and put in the oven for one minute--not more. Simply delicious."
"That woman lives for food," murmured Mr. Vyse. "Simply lives for it. She can't think of anything else. I remember in _Riders to the Sea_--you know 'and it's the fine, quiet time I'll be having.' I could _not_ get the effect I wanted. At last I told her to think of peppermint creams--she's very fond of peppermint creams. I got the effect at once--a sort of far-away look that went to your very soul."
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent. He was remembering.
Mr. Tomlinson opposite cleared his throat preparatory to entering into conversation.
"You produce plays, I hear, eh? I'm fond of a good play myself. _Jim the Penman_, now; that was a play."
"My God," said Mr. Vyse, and shivered down all the long length of him.
"A tiny clove of garlic," said Miss Nunn to the Duchess. "You tell your cook. It's wonderful."
She sighed happily and turned to her husband. "Henry," she said plaintively, "I've never even _seen_ the caviar."
"You're as near as nothing to sitting on it," returned Mr. Judd cheerfully. "You put it behind you on the chair."
Rosina Nunn retrieved it hurriedly, and beamed round the table.
"Henry is too wonderful. I'm so terribly absent-minded. I never know where I've put anything."
"Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag," said Henry jocosely. "And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit of wiring and phoning that day."
"They were insured," said Miss Nunn dreamily. "Not like my opal." A spasm of exquisite heart-rending grief flitted across her face.
Several times, when in the company of Mr. Quin, Mr. Satterthwaite had had the feeling of taking part in a play. This illusion was with him very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words "my opal" were his own cue. He leaned forward.
"Your opal, Miss Nunn?"
"Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was stolen, you know. And I never got it back."
"Do tell us," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Well--I was born in October--so it's lucky for me to wear opals, and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very large--about the size of a two-shilling piece--but oh! the color and the fire."
She sighed. Mr. Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story sound like some mournful saga of old.
"It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays."
"Very good plays," put in Mr. Vyse professionally. "Why, I once kept one of his plays six months."
"Did you produce it?" asked Mr. Tomlinson.
"Oh! _no_," said Mr. Vyse, shocked at the idea. "But do you know, at one time I actually thought of doing so?"
"It had a wonderful part in it for me," said Miss Nunn. "_Rachel's Children_, it was called--though there wasn't anyone called Rachel in the play. He came to talk to me about it--at the theater. I liked him. He was nice-looking--and very shy, poor boy. I remember"--a beautiful far-away look stole over her face--"he brought me some peppermint creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He'd been out in Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket then. I missed it as soon as he'd gone. There _was_ a to-do. You remember?"
She turned to Mr. Vyse.
"Oh! I remember," said Mr. Vyse with a groan.
"They found the empty case in his rooms," continued the actress. "He'd been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay a large sum into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn't produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don't you? He might have thought of something better than that. I had to go and give evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent said it was very good publicity--but I'd much rather have had my opal back."
She shook her head sadly.
"Have some preserved pineapple?" said Mr. Judd.
Miss Nunn brightened up. "Where is it?"
"I gave it to you just now."
Miss Nunn looked behind her and in front of her, eyed her gray silk _pochette_, and then slowly drew up a large purple silk bag that was reposing on the ground beside her. She began to turn the contents out slowly on the table, much to Mr. Satterthwaite's interest.
There was a powder puff, a lipstick, a small jewel case, a skein of wool, another powder puff, two handkerchiefs, a box of chocolate creams, an enameled paper knife, a mirror, a little dark brown wooden box, five letters, a walnut, a small square of mauve crepe de Chine, a piece of ribbon, and the end of a _croissant_. Last of all came the preserved pineapple.
"_Eureka_," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite softly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Satterthwaite hastily. "What a charming paper knife."
"Yes, isn't it? Somebody gave it to me. I can't remember who."
"That's an Indian box," remarked Mr. Tomlinson. "Ingenious little things, aren't they?"
"Somebody gave me that too," said Miss Nunn. "I've had it a long time. It used always to stand on my dressing-table at the theater. I don't think it's very pretty, though, do you?"
The box was of plain dark brown wood. It pushed open from the side. On the top of it were two plain flaps of wood that could be turned round and round.
"Not pretty perhaps," said Mr. Tomlinson with a chuckle. "But I'll bet you've never seen one like it."
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward. He had an excited feeling. "Why did you say it was ingenious?" he demanded.
"Well, isn't it?"
The judge appealed to Miss Nunn. She looked at him blankly.
"I suppose I mustn't show them the trick of it--eh?"
Miss Nunn still looked blank.
"What trick?" asked Mr. Judd.
"God bless my soul, don't you know?"
He looked round the inquiring faces.
"Fancy that now. May I have the box a minute? Thank you."
He pushed it open.
"Now then, can anyone give me something to put in it--not too big. Here's a small piece of Gruyère cheese. That will do capitally. I place it inside, shut the box."
He fumbled for a minute or two with his hands.
"Now see--"
He opened the box again. It was empty.
"Well, I never," said Mr. Judd. "How do you do it?"
"It's quite simple. Turn the box upside down, and move the left-hand flap halfway round, then shut the right-hand flap. Now to bring our piece of cheese back again we must reverse that. The right-hand flap halfway round, and the left one closed, still keeping the box upside down. And now--Hey, presto!"
The box slid open. A gasp went round the table. The cheese was there--but so was something else. A round thing that blinked forth every color of the rainbow.
"_My opal!_"
It was a clarion note. Rosina Nunn stood upright, her hands clasped to her breast.
"My opal! But how did it get there?"
Henry Judd cleared his throat. "I--er--I rather think, Rosy, my girl, you must have put it there yourself."
Someone got up from the table and blundered out into the air. It was Naomi Carlton-Smith. Mr. Quin followed her.
"But when? Do you mean--"
Mr. Satterthwaite watched her while the truth dawned on her. It took over two minutes before she got it.
"You mean last year--at the theater."
"You know," said Henry apologetically. "You _do_ fiddle with things, Rosy. Look at you with the caviar today."
Miss Nunn was painfully following out her mental processes. "I just slipped it in without thinking, and then I suppose I turned the box about and did the thing by accident, but then--but then--" At last it came. "But then Alec Gerard didn't steal it after all. Oh!"--a full-throated cry, poignant, moving--"how dreadful!"