Conway Westenhanger had no very high opinion of his own ability to
unravel the Talisman mystery, and the more he thought over the subject
the less could he see any simple solution. One point, however, seemed
beyond dispute: the method of elimination, as handled by Freddie
Stickney, had been given a trial and had led to absolutely nothing
whatever. The net result of Freddie’s efforts was that everybody had
been made to feel uncomfortable, while not a single gleam of light had
been thrown upon the problem. And yet, given the conditions of the
case, the elimination method seemed to promise results. If the
servants were put on one side, and if no thief had got into the house
in the darkness, then only thirteen persons remained who had any
possible means of access to the Corinthian’s Room that night. One of
them must be responsible for the vanishing of the Talisman. That
seemed an inevitable conclusion.
But here his train of thought was crossed by another. He could not
quite dismiss from his mind the impression made upon him by the way in
which old Rollo Dangerfield had taken his loss.
“The thing’s worth at least £50,000,” Westenhanger reflected. “The
Dangerfields may be well enough off, but a loss on that scale is
something more than a flea-bite. And yet he doesn’t seem disturbed in
the slightest. One could bet that he really believes the Talisman will
turn up again in a few days. If it isn’t cold confidence, then it’s
the best acting I ever saw. I could almost take my oath that he meant
what he said.”
He turned the matter over and over in his mind for a time; but
although a number of suggestions offered themselves, none of them
seemed satisfying.
“It may be a case of rank superstition, but I don’t read him so
myself. Who believes in that sort of stuff nowadays? It can’t be that.
Of course, he side-tracked all the talk about the Dangerfield Secret.
He’s probably half-ashamed of that business—likely it’s some old
ritual about informing the heir that in 1033 or so the head of the
Dangerfields sold his soul to the Devil. The Dangerfield Secret has
nothing to do with the case anyway.”
But Westenhanger was wrong on that point, as he was to discover at no
distant date. However, dismissing that line of thought, he sought for
other possible explanations of the mystery.
“The old man may know who took the Talisman,” he suggested to himself.
“If that’s so, then perhaps he means to put the screw on the culprit
quietly, without saying anything to the rest of us. Most obviously he
doesn’t want a scandal at Friocksheim. But in that case he must have
spotted the wrong ’un immediately; because, first thing in the
morning, he was quite certain that the Talisman would turn up again—he
wasn’t worried in the slightest degree. If he tracked down the thief
between one a.m. and breakfast-time, it was a lightning bit of
detective work. But if it wasn’t a case of detection, then the only
possible explanation is that he actually saw the theft committed.”
Westenhanger paused only for a moment on this idea, however, for its
inherent improbability struck him at once.
“That’s no good. If he’d caught the thief in the act, he’d simply have
threatened to expose him; got the Talisman back from him, and replaced
it in its cabinet without giving rise to all this trouble.”
Then a new thought occurred to him.
“But suppose old Rollo couldn’t trust the thief not to have a second
try, with better luck the second shot? That’s a possibility. If I’d
been in old Rollo’s shoes under these conditions I think I’d have
pocketed the Talisman and kept it safe until that particular guest’s
visit was up. Then he could put it back in the cabinet with a
comfortable mind. That’s a possibility, too, and Wraxall might fit the
case.”
But here again his knowledge would hardly fit the hypothesis.
“No, that won’t work, either,” he admitted to himself. “Old Rollo’s a
chivalrous old bird. He knows Miss Cressage is under suspicion
now—Freddie’s sure to have let that leak out. If the old man knew the
identity of the thief he certainly wouldn’t stand aside and let the
girl bear the brunt of things for a moment, I’m sure. . . . Wraxall
isn’t even a friend of the Dangerfields; he’s the merest casual
caller, so far as they’re concerned. There’s no reason why they should
shield _him_.”
He cudgelled his brain for another alternative hypothesis.
“Suppose the old man didn’t spot the thief, but managed somehow to
discover where the Talisman was hidden after it was stolen. He may be
keeping a watch on the hiding-place, waiting for the thief to give
himself away by going after the thing at last.”
He brooded for a time on the various ideas he had evolved; but in the
end he put them all aside.
“Damn it!” he said, irritably, “if I go on like this, I’ll end up by
being as bad as Freddie. That’s not the way to go about the business
at all. What’s wanted is new facts, not a lot of futile ideas. One
must begin somewhere. I’ll go and have a look at the Corinthian’s Room
and see if anything suggests itself when I’m on the actual spot.”
Westenhanger had learnt that no change had been made in the
Corinthian’s Room since the theft. The cabinet had been untouched,
just as the thief had left it. They had all been asked not to tamper
with anything.
“The Talisman will come back by the way in which it went,” Old
Dangerfield had said, with a faint mockery in his voice. “Let us leave
the door open for it to get into its case again.”
Without any very strong hope in his mind, Westenhanger made his way to
the Corinthian’s Room which, to his relief, was untenanted. He felt a
certain shamefacedness in actually embarking on this attempt at
detection, and he was glad that he could examine the place without
betraying his purpose. As he entered the door, his eye was caught by
the gigantic chess-board set in the floor pattern, and he examined it
curiously.
“These little holes at the corners of the squares are rum,” he
thought, as his eye was caught by one of them. “I begin to wonder
whether Wraxall wasn’t near the mark when he talked about some kind of
man-trap for protecting the Talisman. But no, that’s obviously
rubbish, because the Talisman’s gone and yet none of us shows much in
the way of visible damage. Besides, old Rollo declared there was no
man-trap—you could lift the Talisman and come to no harm. He
volunteered that. And if there’s one thing certain in this business
it’s that Rollo isn’t an aimless liar. That notion has nothing in it.”
He stepped across the chess-board and halted before the empty cabinet
which had held the Dangerfield Talisman. It stood on its stone pillar
so that the glass front was breast high, and he examined it minutely
in the hope of detecting something significant. The central
plate-glass slab, through which he had inspected the armlet three
nights before, was intact. On the velvet floor of the cabinet he could
see the clearly marked ring made by the long-continued pressure of the
bell-cover of tinted glass which now stood in a fresh position a
little to the right, almost behind the closed door of the cabinet. The
other door stood half-open, and he noticed that it had no lock but
only an ordinary spring-catch. Idly he tried the strength of the
spring, using his nail to avoid leaving any finger-marks, and he found
that the catch was in good order. The handles of the doors were simple
in pattern, like miniature corkscrew handles. Conway Westenhanger
studied the glass surfaces with care, but after a time he abandoned
his self-imposed task.
“Not much use bothering about finger-marks there,” he commented.
“There’s no saying how many of us had our paws on it, that night he
showed us the Talisman. Some of them are bound to be there, even if
the case has been dusted by the servants. Most likely there’s a set of
my own amongst them. Nobody could be incriminated by that, certainly.
There’s nothing in it.”
He stepped back a pace to look at the cabinet as a whole, and suddenly
a keen expression crossed his features. He had seen the thing he
wanted.
“Well, _that_ limits it down considerably!” he said with relief. “What
a bit of pure luck! And I believe I’m right, too.”
He thought for a moment or two before deciding on his next step.
“This isn’t going to be so easy, after all,” he concluded, with more
hesitation in his manner. “I can’t go running round them, asking that
particular question bluntly, or the thief will be put on his guard
long before it comes to his turn. This affair will need careful
handling—very careful. And I’ll need to try a blank experiment first
with someone who is absolutely above suspicion. I know how I’d do the
thing, but I’m prejudiced subconsciously, probably. I’ll need some
subject who doesn’t know what I’m after.”
He ran over in his mind the list of the house-party.
“Douglas, of course! He’s the man. He offered to help if I needed him,
and he’s able to keep his tongue quiet.”
Then a fresh thought occurred to him. A picture of Eileen Cressage’s
strained face came up in his memory and changed his immediate purpose.
“I’ll see her first, and try it,” he decided. “After all, the main
thing is to clear her and get her out of this affair if possible. Once
that’s done, there will be time enough to think about Douglas.”
It took him longer than he expected to hit upon a line of procedure
that satisfied him. More than once he was forced to discard an idea
which proved faulty after consideration and think out something fresh.
At last, however, his plans seemed to be sound so far as he could see.
He closed the door of the Corinthian’s Room and made his way into the
hall. Freddie Stickney was sitting beside the main entrance, evidently
deep in thought.
“Wake up, Freddie!” Westenhanger brutally interrupted the reflections
of the amateur detective. “Seen Douglas about anywhere?”
“I think he’s been playing tennis. Most likely he’s still down at the
courts.”
“Oh! Seen Cynthia and Miss Cressage since breakfast?”
Westenhanger was careful to couple Eileen’s name with Cynthia’s in his
demand. He had no desire to let Freddie know that he was in search of
Eileen in particular.
“Cynthia’s probably down at the tennis courts with Douglas,” Freddie
assured him. “I saw them go off together in that direction. Miss
Cressage went away by herself some time ago, towards the shore—over
yonder.”
Westenhanger nodded his thanks curtly and descended the steps leading
down into the gardens. He sauntered along while he was within range of
Freddie’s eyes, but as soon as he got out of sight of the door, he
quickened his steps. Ten minutes brought him to a spot from which he
could see the nearer coastline, and, looking from point to point, he
at last detected a girl’s figure on a tiny headland which ran out to
form one horn of the bay.
He made his way indirectly towards her, and before he reached the
ridge of the headland he slackened his pace, so that when he actually
came into her neighbourhood he seemed to have arrived there by pure
chance in the course of an aimless walk. He wished, above everything,
to avoid giving her the impression that he had deliberately sought her
out; for the test he meant to apply depended for its success on her
being completely off her guard. He had not the slightest doubt as to
the result, but his scientific caution demanded that he should play
his game with absolute fairness. If the test was to establish anything
whatever, it would have to be applied without fear or favour.
As he drew nearer he tried to read something from her attitude. She
faced the sea, and from time to time he saw her glance along the
horizon, only to look down again when her eyes found nothing but the
skyline.
“That girl’s got a bit of personality somewhere,” Westenhanger
reflected, as he advanced. “Every line of her figure shows some
emotion, just as clearly as if I were looking at her face. But what
particular emotion is it? She looks dejected, but that isn’t
everything. There’s something else there as well.”
Enlightenment flashed across him.
“That’s the way Robinson Crusoe might have looked when he was hoping
for a sail and yet felt certain it wasn’t coming that day. It’s hope
deferred that’s wrong with that girl. But what’s she hoping for?”
By this time he had come quite close to her, and at the sound of his
steps on the turf she turned her head.
“Not disturbing you, I hope?” he said, casually, as he came up. “I
came up to have a look at the view for a moment or two. May I sit
down?”
She nodded assent, seeming to accept his company with indifference. He
seated himself a couple of yards away and for some minutes he gazed
over the bay without saying anything.
“May I smoke?”
She gave him permission, and he rose and stepped across to offer his
case. She took a cigarette, but he seemed to change his mind, closed
his case and put it back in his pocket. Then he re-seated himself in
his old position.
“That’s stupid of me,” he exclaimed, as the girl looked at her
unlighted cigarette. He drew out a little silver box and tossed it
over to her. “Catch.”
He threw it so clumsily, that though she snatched at it in the air,
she missed it, and was forced to reach over and pick it up.
“Sorry,” Westenhanger apologised, as she struck a match for herself.
He waited for some minutes before saying anything further. Eileen
Cressage seemed to feel no desire for talk. She smoked slowly, and
from time to time her eyes followed the tiny blue clouds as they
drifted seaward on the faint airs which came from the land.
Westenhanger was not deceived. She was still scanning the horizon-line
in search of something. Suddenly he realised what the thing must be.
“I wonder how Mrs. Brent is getting on,” he said, watching the girl’s
face as he spoke. “She hasn’t made any sign since she left.”
“How could she?”
“Oh, wireless. Most boats have it.”
“I wish the _Kestrel_ had. But she hasn’t.”
Something in the girl’s voice surprised Westenhanger—an intensity of
feeling which seemed quite uncalled-for by the subject. Of course,
Eileen was watching for the _Kestrel’s_ return. That was why she had
come up to the headland; that was why she looked out to sea so
eagerly. Anyone could put two and two together to that extent. But why
should she be so eager to get into touch with the yacht? Obviously she
wanted to do so; the reference to the lack of wireless could mean
nothing else. And the tone of her voice was enough to betray the
intensity of her desire.
Of course the _Kestrel_ meant Mrs. Brent; there was no one else on
board except the crew. But that meant that the return of Mrs. Brent
was the thing Eileen Cressage was awaiting with such eagerness. Where
did Mrs. Brent come into the affair? The only thing that mattered now
to the girl was to be extricated from the position she was in. Had she
been shielding Mrs. Brent in something? Had she given Mrs. Brent some
promise of secrecy and was she now waiting for the _Kestrel’s_ return
so that she might take back her promise and clear herself? It sounded
unlikely. Mrs. Brent could hardly be mixed up in the Talisman mystery.
But if she was not, why should Eileen be so eager for the coming of
the yacht?
He watched the sea again, avoiding the girl’s face with his eyes.
After a time she finished her cigarette and threw away the stub.
“Another?” he suggested, drawing out his case.
She refused, and he took a cigarette himself and felt for his
match-box. Eileen had let it slip down to the ground beside her after
using it, and she now picked it up and tossed it across to him.
Westenhanger deliberately lighted his cigarette, blew out the match
carefully, and pitched it away before saying anything.
“Nobody suspects you of taking the Talisman, Miss Cressage,” he said
at last.
The girl started as though she had been stung, and made a gesture as
though she wished to stop him saying anything further. Westenhanger
continued without appearing to notice her action.
“If that was all I had to say, Miss Cressage, I think I would have
left it to your imagination. No decent person thinks you had anything
to do with that business; and I expect you know that without my
telling you. What I wanted to say was a shade more interesting.”
He looked out to seaward, so as to let the girl feel that he was not
watching her.
“I _know_ you didn’t take it, and I think I’ll be able to prove that
fairly conclusively to any reasonable person.”
To his surprise she showed very little relief at his statement. Her
voice had no particular ring of pleasure in it when she replied. It
seemed almost as though she regarded the matter as of slight
importance in comparison with something else that was in her mind.
Westenhanger was frankly puzzled by her attitude—even a little
nettled to find that his efforts on her behalf led to so little
acknowledgment.
“It’s very kind of you, Mr. Westenhanger. I know I have some very good
friends here at Friocksheim. But there are some other people here too.
I know perfectly well what some of them think. Even if I were cleared
of the Talisman theft, they’d go on repeating other things about me.
Oh, I know what they’ve been saying. I’m not a fool, Mr. Westenhanger.
I know quite well what that miserable little beast Stickney has been
hinting about me.”
She raised her eyes again to the sky-line, looking over the empty sea.
“Oh, I _do_ wish the _Kestrel_ would come!”
For a few moments Westenhanger also scanned the horizon, giving her
time to pull herself together again. When she broke the silence, it
was in another tone.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Westenhanger. That was ungrateful of me. You’ve been
very kind. Don’t take that seriously. You know I’ve got very raw
nerves just now, and you mustn’t blame me too much.”
Westenhanger’s smile reassured her.
“Now I’m all right,” she went on. “I don’t deserve it; but I wish
you’d tell me just what you meant by what you said just now. How can
you clear me in the Talisman affair? Of course I knew all along that
you never believed I took it. I could see that in your face—and in
Douglas’s too. But proving it’s a different thing, isn’t it?”
Westenhanger smiled again, in genuine amusement this time; and his
expression helped the girl in her struggle for the control of her
nerves.
“I’m going to play the mystery-man for another quarter of an hour,” he
said, “then I’ll explain the whole affair to you. We’ll need Douglas’s
help also. But just to tantalise you, I can tell you that I got
absolute certainty on the point since I came up here half and hour
ago. Now, if that excites your curiosity, let’s gather in Douglas and
clear the ground for my explanation. It’s so simple that you’ll
probably think you saw it yourself, really.”
She rose to her feet and gave a last glance round the sea-rim; but no
smoke showed on the horizon. Then they made their way down the
headland and back into the Friocksheim grounds. Douglas had finished
his tennis, they found when they reached the courts; and as Cynthia
had gone into the house to write a letter he was easily persuaded to
go with Westenhanger and Eileen. As they walked through the gardens,
the engineer puzzled Douglas by a request.
“Have you a thick scarf, Miss Cressage?”
“Yes.”
The girl’s face showed that she had no idea of what lay behind the
inquiry.
“Well, would you mind getting it—and a pair of gloves. And then would
you come to the Corinthian’s Room?”
She nodded without saying anything, and Westenhanger turned to
Douglas.
“Your outfit, my lad, will be a pair of thin gloves, if you have them.
Bring ’em to the Corinthian’s Room, and don’t keep Miss Cressage
waiting. I’m going there myself direct.”
In a few moments they rejoined him.
“Now, Douglas,” he said, “your business is to stand in the corridor at
present and detain any possible intruder by the charm of your
conversation. Nobody’s to get into this room for the next five
minutes. You’re a peaceful picket, you understand?”
Douglas grinned and retired into the corridor.
“Now, Miss Cressage,” said Westenhanger, pushing the door until it was
almost closed, “would you mind putting on your gloves.”
The girl did so and then looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“What’s all this about, Mr. Westenhanger? I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid you must bear with it for a minute or two more and then it
will be quite obvious. Do you mind if I blindfold you with this scarf?
I know it looks like a child’s game; but I really am serious.”
He wound the scarf round her head and fastened it gently.
“Can you see?”
“No; you’ve been quite efficient.”
“It’s most important that you shouldn’t see anything. Quite sure
you’re absolutely blindfolded?”
“Quite.”
“Very good.”
She heard a click like the closing of a pocket-knife, then
Westenhanger’s voice in a low tone near her ear.
“I’ve just shut the door of the cabinet. Now let me lead you over to
it.”
He guided her carefully for a step or two.
“Now,” he continued in the same low tone, “you’re standing right in
front of the centre of the cabinet. If you lift your hand you can open
the door. Try it.”
Obediently Eileen put out her hand, groped and caught the handle and,
after turning it, opened the door.
“Now,” said Westenhanger again, “suppose you try to reach the place
where the Talisman was. Wait! You might knock over the bell, being
blindfolded. Don’t move an inch after I say Stop! . . . Stop!”
She brought her hand to rest immediately.
“Now, bring your hand back to your side and then take a step
backwards. I’ll see you don’t trip.”
As she stood, after completing the movement, she heard another slight
click.
“That’s all, Miss Cressage. Now I’ll take the scarf off.”
He did so, and she looked round, slightly dazzled by the sunlight
which streamed into the room. Nothing seemed to be changed; and she
failed to understand what his manœuvres meant. Then her eyes ranged
over the cabinet and something caught her attention.
“You’ve been playing some trick on me, Mr. Westenhanger,” she said,
indignantly. “I’m sure I opened the right-hand door of the cabinet,
and now it’s the left-hand one that’s open!”
Westenhanger, as soon as she began to speak, had crossed the room
swiftly and closed the door leading into the corridor completely. He
turned back with a vexed expression on his face.
“My fault entirely,” he said. “I ought to have shut that door. You
nearly gave the show away to Douglas. Didn’t I tell you it was
obvious?”
Eileen looked from him to the cabinet and then back again to his face,
which showed a mixture of triumph and amusement.
“But it isn’t obvious,” she protested. “I don’t understand what you’re
driving at.”
“We’ll repeat the whole performance with Douglas, and you’ll see the
point.”
He went to the door again and summoned the picket.
“Douglas, come inside. I strongly recommend to your attention the
genuine antique carving on the back of this door. It’s well worthy of
study. Study it.”
Douglas Fairmile obediently stepped into the room, faced the door and
fixed his eye on the carving.
“I know it by heart, old man,” he asserted. “You can’t puzzle me with
any of your parlour games.”
“Got it well into your mind? All right. Miss Cressage will now
blindfold you.”
The girl, still more puzzled by this procedure, put the scarf over
Douglas’s eyes and fastened it in position.
“Blind as a bat, Douglas?” demanded Westenhanger. His tone changed.
“I’m serious. You can’t see anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“Right.”
Westenhanger took out his pen-knife and opened it silently. He drew
Eileen’s attention to it with a glance.
“Oh, half a jiff,” he exclaimed, as if he suddenly remembered
something. “One of the cabinet doors is open. I’ll shut it.” He shut
his pen-knife with a click; but to Eileen’s surprise he made no
attempt to close the open door of the cabinet.
“Now, Douglas, this way. I’ll lead you.”
Again he gave the same series of orders as he had given to her. She
saw Douglas put out his right hand, grope for the handle of the
right-hand door, open it, and then inserting his arm into the case,
reach to the left towards the place where the Talisman used to lie.
“Stop! . . . Now come out again, gently. Don’t upset the glass bell.”
Douglas withdrew his arm cautiously.
“One pace to the rear, and stand fast.”
Douglas stepped back obediently. Westenhanger went up to the cabinet.
“I’m shutting the door. Hear the click?”
He suited the action to the word, closing the door which Douglas had
opened. Then he turned round to Eileen.
“_Now_ do you see, Miss Cressage? That’ll do, Douglas. You can take
off your turban. It doesn’t suit you.”
Douglas disentangled himself from the scarf, blinked for a moment or
two, and then looked at the cabinet.
“What’s your little game?” he demanded. “The left-hand door’s open
now. It was the right-hand one that I opened.”
“Exactly,” said Westenhanger. “The left-hand door’s been open all the
time—_just as the thief left it_. Neither of you touched it. That’s
why I blindfolded you both. I wanted you to think both doors were
shut; and I didn’t want to close that left-hand door. Much better to
leave things exactly as they are. The Dangerfields may want to call in
the police after all, you know; and we mustn’t destroy any possible
clues. Hence the gloves I asked you to put on—you’ve left no
fingermarks.”
Eileen broke in with a trace of excitement in her voice.
“Now I _do_ see. You wanted to test which hand I used when I opened
the cabinet. Both Douglas and I are right-handed. The thief was
left-handed because he opened the other door—not the one we opened. Is
that it?”
“That’s it,” admitted Westenhanger. “I told you it was obvious. And of
course all that by-play was just meant to keep your mind off the
crucial action, so that you’d do it perfectly naturally, without
giving it a thought. See it, Douglas? Don’t forget the pattern on the
back of the door; it’s most important, you know!”
“You had me there, I’ll admit,” confessed Douglas. “You wandered me
completely, so that I hadn’t a notion what you were after. And so the
thief’s left-handed, is he?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
Eileen stepped over to the cabinet and examined it for a moment or
two.
“How, exactly, did you come to think of it, Mr. Westenhanger? I
suppose it was the left-hand door that gave you the key?”
“There’s some confirmatory evidence,” Westenhanger explained. “Will
you stand in front of the case, Miss Cressage? Now notice that you’ve
the choice between the two doors if you wanted to get at the Talisman.
You’re right-handed, so you choose the right-hand door, naturally.
Besides, it’s always easier to turn a handle clockwise than
counter-clockwise; and that favours the right-hand again,
subconsciously. To open the cabinet you turn the right-hand handle as
you turn a corkscrew, which is easier than turning the left-hand
handle counter-clockwise.”
Eileen put out both hands and imitated the motion of opening the
doors.
“That’s true enough,” she said. “I remember that sometimes a door
handle gives one trouble if it works in the opposite direction from
the usual way.”
Westenhanger continued his explanation.
“Now look at where the bell has been placed. That’s the really
important point. The thief might have been a right-handed man and used
his right hand to take the Talisman; then, after he had got it, he
might have closed the door he had used and opened the left-hand one.
But the bell gives him away.”
Douglas examined the case closely.
“The bell’s slightly to the right of its old position. Is that what
you mean?”
Westenhanger nodded.
“That’s it. A right-handed man goes in at the right-hand door, just as
you both did. Then he crooks his elbow towards his chest to get his
hand over to the Talisman. That brings his hand to the centre of the
case. It’s a narrow case, you notice. Not much room to manœuvre in
it.”
“I see,” said Eileen. “He’d pick up the bell; and he’d have to put it
down again—clear of the Talisman—in order to pick up the jewel. If he
put it down on the right-hand side of the case, it would be in the way
of his arm in getting out again, so he’d set it down _beyond_ the
Talisman, towards the left of the case. Then he’d pick up the Talisman
and take his hand and arm out of the case. Is that it?”
“Yes,” confirmed Westenhanger. “That’s what a right-handed man would
do. And since the bell’s been set down towards the right hand of the
cabinet, it’s obvious that there’s been a left-hander at work, isn’t
it?”
“That seems right,” Eileen admitted. “It’s very clever of you to have
noticed it.”
“You noticed it yourself. It just happened that I was lucky enough to
spot the thing almost at once.”
Eileen reflected for a moment, then she addressed Westenhanger
directly.
“There’s just one other thing I don’t quite understand. Out on the
headland, you said you’d made certain about the matter after you met
me there. That means you weren’t quite sure before. What did you mean
by that?”
Westenhanger laughed.
“That’s obvious, too. Don’t you see it now?”
The girl went over in her memory the talk which she had had with him
half an hour previously; but quite evidently it suggested nothing to
her mind as a solution.
“No,” she admitted at last, “I can’t think of anything.”
“It’s simple enough. Think of the things I did; don’t bother about
anything I said to you.”
After a moment Eileen recalled something.
“You offered me a cigarette.”
“Yes. I held the case so that you could reach it with either hand; but
you used your right hand to pick out the cigarette.”
“Was that all?” She put on a judicial expression. “That doesn’t seem
much to go on in a thing like this—does it, Douglas?”
“Look at him grinning,” said Douglas, in sham disgust. “He’s laughing
at us. He’s got more up his sleeve, of course.”
Westenhanger admitted it with a nod.
“Of course I have. What happened next, Miss Cressage?”
“I smoked for a while.”
“Do you usually smoke unlighted cigarettes?”
Eileen laughed at her omission.
“No, of course not. I remember now. You gave me your match-box.”
“Hardly correct in detail. I was rude enough to pitch my match-box
across to you, so that you could catch it with either hand. What I
wanted to see was which hand you would use. You made a snatch at
it—with your right hand.”
“I didn’t imagine I was being watched so closely as all that, Mr.
Westenhanger. Is that all, now?”
“Oh, no. There’s more to come. You finished your cigarette and threw
away the stub. You tried to fling it over the cliff-edge on your right
side, if you remember.”
“I think so. One does these things without thinking about them.”
“That’s just why I attached importance to them in this case. Now
think. It was a fairly long distance to throw a cigarette, wasn’t it.
You just failed to send yours over the edge. So you had to pitch it to
the best of your ability. If you’d been left-handed you’d have used
your left hand, swinging it across your body. What you actually did
was to use your right hand in an awkward attitude. Evidently your
right hand, even used awkwardly, was better than your left used in a
natural gesture. Obvious conclusion—you were right-handed.”
“That was rather neat, wasn’t it, Douglas?”
“Oh, Conway always had the name of a smart lad, even among the great
brains like myself. Don’t let’s interrupt him. I can see he’s still
bursting with news.”
“How do you strike a match on a box, Douglas?” demanded Westenhanger,
suddenly.
“How should I know? This way, of course.”
Douglas fished a match-box from his pocket, took out a vesta and
struck it.
“That’s what you did, Miss Cressage. You held the match in your right
hand and the box in your left, just as Douglas is holding them now. A
left-hander reverses the positions and strikes the match with his left
hand. I remember noticing that once.”
“Anything more, Mr. Westenhanger?”
“Just one thing. After a while, I took out a cigarette myself and you
had to throw my match-box across to me. You used your right hand
again. That made five things, in any one of which even partial
left-handedness might have come out. What settled it, to my mind, was
the snatch at the match-box when I tossed it over to you. That’s an
almost instinctive movement, when you’ve no time to think. One uses
the hand that’s had most practice, provided one has a free choice
between the two hands; and I was careful to pitch the box so that you
might have used either hand for it.”
“Well, you’re a good actor, Mr. Westenhanger. I never suspected
anything at all; and the whole time you must have been watching me
like a cat watching a mouse.”
“It wouldn’t have been much good if you had suspected,” said
Westenhanger. He turned to Douglas. “Now, Douglas, does that evidence
seem enough to prove that Miss Cressage had no hand in the Talisman’s
disappearance? I promised her I could do that. It’s for you to say.”
Douglas Fairmile had no doubts.
“Of course it does. I may not be an impartial judge, of course; for I
never believed for a moment that Eileen had the least connection with
the Talisman affair. But that evidence would convince most people.
Smart of you to spot these things, Conway.”
Conway Westenhanger glanced from one to the other.
“It’s for Miss Cressage to say what we ought to do next,” he pointed
out to them. “My main reason for going into the thing at all was
simply to clear her of suspicion.”
Eileen gave him a grateful glance and seemed inclined to say
something. Then quite evidently she changed her mind and chose a fresh
subject.
“What do you think, Douglas?”
“Never suffered from doubts in my life. Seems to me the first thing is
to put a stop to any more chatter with your name in it, Eileen. Call
another general meeting. Let Conway make a few remarks. That would
finish it.”
Eileen looked from one to the other doubtfully. She reflected for a
moment or two, while Douglas and Westenhanger waited for her to speak.
At last she gave them her view.
“No, you’re wrong, Douglas. That wouldn’t finish it. It would simply
turn it into something worse. Both Mrs. Caistor Scorton and that
little creature Stickney were accurate enough in what they said last
night. I was out of my room, just as they made out. If I wasn’t
stealing the Talisman, then they’d have their own ideas about where I
was during that time. Mr. Westenhanger knows what I mean; and so do
you, Douglas. And I can’t clear myself. I really can’t.”
She deliberately caught the eye of each man in turn and held it long
enough to show that she was not avoiding them; then she looked down,
as if thinking carefully.
“You certainly mustn’t say anything about this, just now. It wouldn’t
do me any good. And there’s a better reason. Our one chance of catching
this thief is to find the left-handed man amongst the people here. If
you bring out this evidence, he’ll be on his guard at once and cover
up his left-handedness somehow. He could cut his right hand badly, or
something like that.”
“I knew that,” admitted Westenhanger, “but the main thing still seems
to me to get you cleared. Don’t you want to be?”
Eileen studied his face in silence for a moment.
“I’ll tell you something,” she said, at last. “When you came down this
morning and began to talk, I thought you were just trying to be
sympathetic; but I didn’t take it at face value. I believed you were
only trying to cheer me up, and that your talk about proving things
wasn’t meant to be taken seriously. Now I know you really did mean
what you said. What’s more, I’ve learned that somebody did more than
just sympathise. You didn’t stop there, Mr. Westenhanger: you did
something practical to clear me of suspicion.”
“I happened to be lucky, first shot—that’s all.”
She waved that aside and went on:
“You really _did_ something, no matter how you choose to describe it;
you didn’t simply stand round, pitying me. Do you know, that’s made
things ever so much easier for me, now that I know about it. I can’t
explain why; it’s just a feeling. I don’t feel absolutely isolated
now, as I did this morning. Don’t think I’m ungrateful to you and
Cynthia, Douglas, or to Nina either. You were all as kind as you could
be. But somehow nobody seemed to be doing anything to help; and I was
feeling the strain of it all, horribly. Now it seems all right again,
somehow.”
She stopped for a moment, then added doubtfully:
“I don’t suppose I’ve made it clear; but it is so. I feel as if a
weight were off my mind. I don’t care how long it is before the
_Kestrel_ comes back.”
“What’s the _Kestrel_ got to do with it?” asked Douglas.
“I can’t tell you,” she said, in a lighter tone. “It’s my turn to play
the mystery-man, Mr. Westenhanger. But everything will be all right
when the _Kestrel_ drops anchor in the bay. I feel sure of that.”
“Are you talking about the Talisman?” demanded Westenhanger.
“No! What’s the _Kestrel_ got to do with the Talisman?” Eileen asked
in surprise. “I only meant my own affairs. I can’t tell you anything
about the Talisman. I know nothing about it.”
Westenhanger accepted her statement without comment.
“Then I take it that you think we ought to use this affair”—he
indicated the cabinet—“to track down the fellow who stole the
Talisman? Things are to be left as they are, so far as you’re
concerned? You don’t want us to say anything to the rest of them?”
“No, certainly not.” There was no hesitation in her tone. “You’ve got
a trump card with this thing, Mr. Westenhanger. You know that well
enough. And the thief must be found. One has to agree even with Mr.
Stickney at times. He’s quite right. We _are_ all under suspicion
until this thing is cleared up; and I think it ought to be cleared up.
I know just exactly how it feels to be under suspicion. You must see
it through to the end and catch the thief. I’m sure you can—you’re
quite clever enough for that—and it’s the only way to clear the rest
of us completely. I wouldn’t hear of it being used and wasted merely
to clear me personally and leave all the rest in the lurch. We’ve got
other people to think of as well.”
“Very sporting of you, Eileen,” said Douglas. “I think you’re right.
But if you change your mind, of course you’ll let us know?”
“I’m really all right again, thanks. I shan’t worry a bit now. Things
are quite different—and I can wait for the _Kestrel_.”