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Updated: June 28, 2025
"It must be very valuable," she said, her breath catching a little. Mrs. Cheever, moving forward, suddenly looked at the ring. "It cost five thousand six years ago," said Mrs. Kildair, glancing down at it. "It has been my talisman ever since. For the moment, however, I am cook; Maude Lille, you are scullery maid; Harris is the chef, and we are under his orders. Mrs.
"My sapphire ring has just been stolen." She said it suddenly, hurling the news among them and waiting ferret-like for some indications in the chorus that broke out. "Stolen!" "Oh, my dear Mrs. Kildair!" "Stolen by Jove!" "You don't mean it!" "What! Stolen here to-night?" "The ring has been taken within the last twenty minutes," continued Mrs. Kildair in the same determined, chiseled tone.
Kildair, touching with her thin fingers the ring that lay uppermost, two large diamonds, flanking a magnificent sapphire. "It is beautiful very beautiful," said the journalist, her eyes fastened to it with an uncontrollable fascination. She put out her fingers and let them rest caressingly on the sapphire, withdrawing them quickly as though the contact had burned them.
She knew pretty nearly every one in that indescribable society in New York that is drawn from all levels, and that imposes but one condition for membership to be amusing. She knew every one and no one knew her. No one knew beyond the vaguest rumors her history or her means. No one had ever heard of a Mr. Kildair.
"Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven " All at once, clear, unmistakable, on the resounding plane of the table was heard a slight metallic note. "The ring!" It was Maude Lille's quick voice that had spoken. Mrs. Kildair continued to count. "Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one " The tension became unbearable.
A slight gasping breath, uncontrollable, almost on the verge of hysterics, was heard, and a man nervously clearing his throat. "Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven " Still nothing had happened. Mrs. Kildair did not vary her measure the slightest, only the sound became more metallic. "Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine and seventy " Some one had sighed.
Jackson, first clear off the table. I want nothing on it." "But, Mrs. Kildair " began Mrs. Jackson's shrill voice again. "That's it. Now put down the candelabrum." In a moment, as Mr.
There was no mistaking the seriousness of her voice. Mr. Harris extinguished the oil lamp, covering the chafing dish clumsily with a discordant, disagreeable sound. Mrs. Cheever and Mrs. Enos Jackson swung about abruptly, Maude Lille rose a little from her seat, while the men imitated these movements of expectancy with a clumsy shuffling of the feet. "Mr. Enos Jackson?" "Yes, Mrs. Kildair."
Kildair, stopping in her bedroom, donned a Watteaulike cooking apron, and slipping her rings from her fingers fixed the three on her pincushion with a hatpin. "Your rings are beautiful, dear, beautiful," said the low voice of Maude Lille, who with Harris and Mrs. Cheever were in the room. "There's only one that is very valuable," said Mrs.
Under their hostess's gay guidance the seven guests began to circulate busily through the rooms, laying the table, grouping the chairs, opening bottles, and preparing the material for the chafing dishes. Mrs. Kildair in the kitchen ransacked the ice box, and with her own hands chopped the fines herbes, shredded the chicken and measured the cream.
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