_] No, no,
not particularly--but that's not the point. [_He looks under the table._
MARTIN. [_Still seeking._] When did madam find that she'd lost it, sir?
HARVEY. Oh, about five minutes after we'd started And we've turned over
everything in the car. It's certainly not there. [_He fusses around the
table._
MARTIN. Is madam quite sure she was wearing it, sir?
SMITHERS. [_Fretfully._] Yes, yes, of course she was wearing it. I put it
on her myself.
MARTIN. Where did madam put her cloak on, sir?
SMITHERS. In here. I brought it in.
MARTIN. You didn't notice whether--
SMITHERS. No. Don't you think if we moved _all_ the rugs--
[_She moves across the room and joins_ WILLIAM, _who is still
grovelling on the floor, and goes on her knees by his side._
HARVEY. It must be here _somewhere._
[_They are all searching furiously_--WILLIAM _by the windows,
peering into the spaces between the wall and the carpets,_ MARTIN
_at the sideboard,_ SMITHERS _gathering the rugs together, all on
their hands and knees, while_ HARVEY, _bent double, is looking
under the table._ MRS. WESTERN _comes in stonily, followed by
the_ JUDGE _and_ MRS. BANKET. MRS. WESTERN _is a handsome woman
of forty-five, with a rather stern, cold face; the_ JUDGE, _a
somewhat corpulent, genial man of fifty-five; and his wife, an
amiable nullity, seven or eight years younger. They are all in
evening-dress, the ladies in opera-cloaks.
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