As Diana moved toward the hallway's better lighting to make her call, and Marianne sank back to her knees, sobbing quietly with the particular exhaustion of someone who understood how little her word was likely to weigh against her employer's, the gathered onlookers began to disperse slightly, several guests offering uncomfortable, sympathetic glances toward the crying maid without quite daring to intervene directly.
It was one of the remaining dinner guests, David Whitlock — a longtime business associate of Charles's, dressed sharply in a charcoal grey suit — who happened to shift his position near the hallway's chandelier at exactly the right angle for a single, sharp glint of light to catch something small and reflective peeking from his breast pocket.
Charles, still crouched near Marianne with the empty jewelry case in hand, caught the flash of movement from the corner of his eye and turned instinctively toward the source. His gaze fixed on David's pocket, on the unmistakable, delicate sparkle of diamonds catching the overhead light in a way that seemed entirely out of place tucked casually into a dinner guest's jacket.
"David," Charles said slowly, rising to his feet, his earlier concerned confusion shifting rapidly into something colder and more focused. "What is that in your pocket?"