It's All My Fault

I didn't go to the drawing room again. I went into my own room and sat
in the dark, and tried to be furiously angry, and only succeeded in
feeling queer and tingly. One thing was absolutely certain: not the same
man, but two different men had kissed me on the stairs to the roof.
It sounds rather horrid and discriminating, but there was all the
difference in the world.

But then--who had? And for whom had Mr. Harbison been waiting on the
roof? "Did you know that I nearly choked you to death a few minutes
ago?" Then he rather expected to finish somebody in that way! Who? Jim,
probably. It was strange, too, but suddenly I realized that no matter
how many suspicious things I mustered up against him--and there were
plenty--down in my heart I didn't believe him guilty of anything, except
this last and unforgivable offense. Whoever was trying to leave the
house had taken the necklace, that seemed clear, unless Max was still
foolishly trying to break quarantine and create one of the sensations he
so dearly loves. This was a new idea, and some things upheld it, but Max
had been playing bridge when I was kissed on the stairs, and there was
still left that ridiculous incident of the comfort.

Bella came up after I had gone to bed, and turned on the light to brush
her hair.

"If I don't leave this mausoleum soon, I'll be carried out," she
declared. "You in bed, Lollie Mercer and Dal flirting, Anne hysterical,
and Jim making his will in the den! You will have to take Aunt Selina
tonight, Kit; I'm all in."