Paul Theroux Reads V. S. Pritchett

The Necklace"Just checking up on a necklace your wife brought in this afternoon," the older of the two detectives said to me when we got to the police station.

He was sucking a peppermint and was short of breath.

The younger one kept his hands in his raincoat pockets and didn't say a word, and neither did I.

We went into an inner room and sat down.

I was afraid of having a smile too big for my face.

My mouth was watering.

All the time, I could feel the words swelling up in me.

We only did our duty.

If you find something in the street, you take it to the police.

Of course, if it's valuable, you may get a reward, but not necessarily.

Anyway, you don't do it for the reward.

But all that week, I'd kept my eyes open for a notice saying, "Reward." Then the young detective pulled the necklace out of his pocket and put it on the table.

"Do you recognize this, Mr. Drayton?" He asked.

I recognized it at once.

"That's it," I said.

"I found it Saturday." "Exactly where?" They asked.

"And what time?" I told them.

"Do you know who it belongs to?" They asked.

"If I had known, I would have taken it to them," I said.

"I wouldn't have brought it here." It was a silly question, and the next ones were silly, too.

"It doesn't belong to you?" The young one asked.

"Or your wife?" Asked the older one.

"Definitely not," I said.

"I found it in the street.

I told you." "Do you know Mrs.