Cufflinks
A few days later, Mike burst into the room in which Psmith was reading.
"I found this," he said, holding up something that glinted sharply in the morning light. "It was in a locked drawer in my desk," he continued, grimly.
"If indeed it is, as it appears to be, made of solid gold, I should think that a very sensible precaution to take."
"I know it's yours. I only bought you those cufflinks last Christmas."
The silence that followed pressed in uncomfortably.
"What? No clever explanations at all?" Mike's voice, usually so cordial, had become venomously sarcastic.
"Not one."