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Updated: June 28, 2025
Kildair, of course, is all you say of her an extraordinary woman. The story is quite characteristic of her. Flanders, I am not sure of, but I think I know him." "Did it really happen?" asked Rankin, who always took the commonplace point of view. "Exactly as I have told it," said Peters. "The only one I don't recognize is Harris," said De Gollyer pensively.
Cheever, you may give it to me," said Mrs. Kildair. She held out her hand without trembling, a smile of triumph on her face, which had in it for a moment an expression of positive cruelty. Immediately she changed, contemplating with amusement the horror of her guests, staring blindly from one to another, seeing the indefinable glance of interrogation that passed from Cheever to Mrs.
"You shall judge," said Peters, who waited until his audience was in strained attention before opening his story. "The names are, of course, disguises." Mrs. Rita Kildair inhabited a charming bachelor-girl studio, very elegant, of the duplex pattern, in one of the buildings just off Central Park West.
Flanders, a broker, compact, nervously alive, well groomed, entered with the informality of assured acquaintance. "You are early," said Mrs. Kildair, in surprise. "On the contrary, you are late," said the broker, glancing at his watch. "Then be a good boy and help me with the candles," she said, giving him a smile and a quick pressure of her fingers.
"I am not going to mince words. The ring has been taken and the thief is among you." For a moment nothing was heard but an indescribable gasp and a sudden turning and searching, then suddenly Cheever's deep bass broke out: "Stolen! But, Mrs. Kildair, is it possible?" "Exactly. There is not the slightest doubt," said Mrs. Kildair.
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