CHAPTER I

THE ACTRESS AND THE RUBIES

THE singular jewel robbery which occurred last Fall at Onyx Court, Mrs. Hermann Van Suyden's country place, near Wheaton-on-theHudson, has continued such an absorbing topic of interest, and so wildly imaginative have been the theories advanced concerning it by the press and others, that I have decided to give a true and unvarnished recital of the entire affair.

It is a task I would willingly forego; but the unjustifiable manner in which the names of several totally innocent persons have been connected with the "Mystery," renders an authoritative statement an obvious duty, and Mrs. Van Suyden and the others concerned have agreed that I,-who more than any other was directly involved in the perplexing tangle,―am the one best qualified to present it.

To begin, then. It was a foggy, rainy

afternoon in November when I arrived at

Onyx Court to remain from Friday until Monday. The skies hung low, and an unintermittent drizzle washed all the landscape into one dull monochrome.

Yet, seen even under such circumstances, the fine old estate, situated high on a bluff which commands a magnificent view of the river for miles, could not fail to impress one with the beauty of its environment. My spirits, drooping in sympathy with the gray, autumnal day, rose in spite of myself, as we swept up the avenue toward the imposing, Colonial entrance.

I had timed my arrival so nicely that I was just in season for a cup of hot tea, and the opportunity of scanning, "off parade," as it were, the companions of my week's end.

Really, it was a delightful change from the cold and mists without to enter the wide, glowing hall with its great fire of logs flickering over the panelled walls, and casting dancing lights and shadows on the men and women scattered about, chattering and drinking tea.

I was greeted cordially, although for a moment mistakenly, by dear near-sighted Mrs. Van Suyden, the most impracticable Philistine who ever dreamed of an Arcadian and impossible Bohemia.

The effort of her life has been to realise a millennial salon, where Society and Art (both capitalized) shall lie down in harmony and she shall lead them. So far she has only succeeded in filling her house with incongruous groups of the gifted and ungrateful; yet with the perseverance espouse a lost cause,

and enthusiasm of those who

she still pursues her dream.

Having corrected the error of her faulty vision, and made clear my identity, I nodded to one or two men near me, accepted a cup of tea, and was about to sink into a chair, when across the wide hall, trailing yards of chiffon and lace tea-gown behind her, rushed Elida Yeats, the California actress who made such a furore in London last season. I have known her since she was a child; but I recognise quite philosophically that she only makes much of me in order to emphasise on this side of the water her acquaintance with my cousin, Lady Southsea.

My English connections, I may remark in passing, are very grand, indeed. It is by virtue of my blue blood that I am able to maintain my position as a "Little Sister to the Rich," and earn a precarious living by painting fans, for I haven't a trace of an income.

But, to return to Elida Yeats. Say what you will about her acting, and I might pass a criticism or so upon that score, if I were minded,— her prettiness is undeniable; of that uncompromising, obvious variety which admits of neither cavil nor faint praise. She has, too, an engaging, caressing way with her, which makes it almost impossible to refuse her anything upon which she has set her heart.

It struck me now that her welcome was unusually cooing; and my suspicions were confirmed when, an hour or so later, as I was dressing for dinner, there came a low tap on my door and Elida entered, effusive and smiling.

"You dear thing," she gushed, brushing her cheek against mine, "I was never quite so glad to see any one in all my life. The Lord has certainly sent you in answer to my prayers."

Then, without waiting for comment or reply, she began impressively: "Were you aware, my dear, that this is the opportunity of a lifetime, the tide in my affairs which taken at the flood will lead to my everlasting fortune? And if you will just lend me a helping hand, Gwendolen Eustacia Bramblestone, it shall mean a lot to you, too. Promise me that you will, there's a dear, benevolent, old girl."

6

She threw her arms about me. "It's such a chance," she pleaded in tones of eager entreaty; "one doesn't get invited to an Onyx Court every day in the week!"

"Perhaps it is just as well," I interpolated drily; "since a single visit seems to have been enough to turn your head." I was tugging at a refractory hook at the time, and there may have been a touch of asperity in my voice.

“Oh, you don't understand," pouted Elida; "you can get a bid to these places any time, because, if you are as poor as Job's turkey, and not radiantly beautiful," the impudence of her!—"nevertheless, you've got a lot of swell relations, and you're considered the cleverest talker in all New York. You amuse them," she continued shrewdly, "and they don't care a tinker's dam that you have graced all their dinners for the past ten years in that same rusty, tattered, old black lace gown you're dragging at. But it's different with me. Occasions of this sort are as scarce as hens' teeth in my calendar, and I've got to make hay while the sun shines. Why, the very fact that Mrs. 'Van' has taken me up ought to be good for a month added to my Broadway engagement, when I decide to give it