Mrs. Brent’s intervention did nothing to relax the tension in the
social atmosphere of Friocksheim; on the contrary, it increased the
general discomfort of the situation. Up to the moment of her
reappearance, some attempt had been made, by common consent, to smooth
over the awkwardness of things; but after her revelations it was
inevitable that the guests should separate into inimical camps. On the
surface a casual observer might have detected nothing amiss, since any
display of open animosity would have made inevitable the scandal which
all of them wished to avoid. Freddie Stickney and Morchard were
treated with a distant and rigid courtesy which in itself emphasised
the existence of new conditions. Beyond that, they were ignored by
almost all the others. Mrs. Caistor Scorton alone seemed to keep them
on the old footing, and she thus served as a link between the two
parties.
How much Rollo Dangerfield knew—or suspected—Westenhanger was unable
to conjecture. Mrs. Brent, Helga, or Eric might have opened the old
man’s eyes. Whether they had done so or not, his old-fashioned
courtesy seemed to make no distinctions among his guests; and
Westenhanger was left in doubt as to whether Rollo was still in
complete ignorance or else, knowing the facts, he put his duties as a
host before his private feelings as regarded Morchard and Freddie.
On the morning after the _Kestrel’s_ arrival, Westenhanger attached
himself to Eileen and persuaded her to go with him to a quiet part of
the gardens, where they were unlikely to be interrupted. He was
anxious to secure what information he could about the appearance of
Helga Dangerfield on the night of the storm, and he lost very little
time in coming to the point.
“I was rather puzzled by that incident you mentioned last night,” he
said, as they picked out a secluded seat. “Your meeting Helga in the
corridor, I mean. Anyone could see that you were both telling the
truth, and yet it sounds a bit impossible, doesn’t it?”
“I was puzzled, too. I saw her quite plainly, hardly much farther off
than you are just now.”
“Had you both got candles?”
“No, she had none; but I saw her quite distinctly by the light of my
own.”
“The electric lights weren’t on?”
“No. But I could see perfectly plainly, except that a draught made my
candle flicker. I recognised her dressing-gown. And no one could
mistake her height and her walk—you know that way she carries herself,
quite unmistakable, so graceful. Oh, it was she, undoubtedly.”
“Did you see her face, by any chance? Did she look towards you?”
“No. She passed by as if she hadn’t noticed me. I thought she hadn’t.”
“With your light in your hand? Curious, isn’t it?”
Eileen considered the matter for some seconds without replying. Then
her face lighted up.
“Oh, now I see what you mean! Of course! It was stupid of me not to
think of that immediately. She was walking in her sleep?”
“It would account for the affair, if she were? I mean, that idea fits
with what you remember, does it?”
“Of course it does! I ought to have thought of it for myself, at once.
But I never knew anyone who walked in their sleep. It’s always been
outside my experience, and I rather disbelieved most of the tales I’ve
heard about it. So it didn’t suggest itself to me until you mentioned
the candle in my hand. Of course, then I saw at once that she couldn’t
help seeing me if she had been awake.”
“Suppose we assume she’s a somnambulist. She doesn’t know she walks in
her sleep. That’s evident. For if she knows she’s subject to it, she’d
have seen the explanation for herself at once; whereas she was just as
puzzled as you were over the thing. Now doesn’t that suggest something
further to you?”
Eileen knitted her brows for a moment or two before she saw his
meaning.
“The Talisman?” she asked finally.
“Yes. Suppose she took it away that night. She may have concealed it
somewhere and clean forgotten—or never known, rather—that she had ever
touched it.”
The girl’s face showed her surprise at this suggestion.
“Do you know, that’s wonderfully clever! I really believe you’ve come
very near the mark. And wouldn’t it be a relief if it turned out to be
true? There’d be no thief after all.”
“If some of them turned out to be thieves, I don’t know that it would
lower them much in my opinion now,” Westenhanger observed,
elliptically.
Eileen avoided a direct reply.
“What I meant was that this cloud of suspicion would be swept away and
most of us could get back to normal again. It’s no use pretending that
we’re enjoying Friocksheim just now.”
Before Westenhanger could say anything further, Nina Lindale appeared,
crossing the lawn before them. Eileen beckoned to her.
“Nina, did you borrow my mirror by any chance?”
Nina Lindale shook her head.
“No, never saw it. You mean your silver one with your initials on the
back? It was on your dressing-table a couple of days ago.”
“Perhaps Cynthia’s got it,” Eileen conjectured.
“She’s just behind me,” Nina told her. “You can ask her when she comes
along. Tell her I’ve gone down to the cove, if she asks. We’re going
to bathe.”
She nodded her thanks and took the path leading to the bathing-place.
A few minutes after she had gone, Cynthia appeared in her turn; but
she also failed to throw any light on the matter of the mirror.
“Sorry I can’t help, but I never set my eyes on the thing. Most
annoying to have it go amissing, Eileen. Take mine any time you want
it.”
“Thanks. I can’t imagine what’s become of my own, though. It’s not the
sort of thing one mislays.”
“Oh, it’ll turn up all right. I shouldn’t worry. Won’t you people come
down and bathe? It’s just the morning for it.”
They allowed themselves to be persuaded.
Westenhanger paid little attention to the incident of the mirror. His
mind was busy with a scheme which had been concerted between himself
and Douglas on the previous night. The list of suspects had now been
reduced to four; and it only remained to discover the left-handed
person in this limited group.
A midday change in the weather favoured their plans. During lunch a
thin rain began, and it soon became evident that the afternoon would
be wet. With a little tactful management, the two men succeeded in
carrying off Wraxall and Eric Dangerfield to the billiard-room.
“What about it?” inquired Douglas, indicating the cue-rack.
Eric shook his head with a smile.
“Leave me out,” he said, indicating his lame ankle. “I can’t stand on
two feet with any comfort yet, much less lean over the table.”
“You, then, Wraxall?” Douglas suggested.
But the American declined his offer.
“I’ve seen you play. I’m not in your class.”
“Give you a reasonable number of points to make a game of it.”
It was quite obvious that Wraxall did not care to play, and Douglas
refrained from pressing him. Westenhanger looked out of the window.
“A soaker of a day! We’ll have to put in the time somehow. Come along,
Douglas. We’re bored stiff. Trot out some of your parlour tricks and
keep us amused. Anything’s better than nothing.”
“I don’t quite like the way you put it, Conway,” protested Douglas,
with a grin. “You haven’t just got the knack of the felicitous phrase,
as it were. You mean well, and all that; but somehow you don’t just
bring it off.”
“Produce you’re latest, anyhow. The only stipulation I make is that
you don’t try to interest us in Find the Lady or the Elusive Pea.
These are barred. But if you can make any money off me by other
methods, you’re welcome to it.”
He sat down and the others followed his example. Douglas considered
for a moment and then took a Swan vesta box from his pocket.
“My sleight of hand’s a bit rusty, I’m afraid,” he apologised. “But
perhaps I might manage to pull off this one if you haven’t seen it
before. Got a florin by any chance, Wraxall?”
The American searched his pockets.
“A florin,” he inquired, “that’s what you call a two-shilling piece,
isn’t it? This coinage of yours always makes me want to think before I
can be sure about it.”
He found his florin and handed it across to Douglas, who refused it.
“No,” he explained, “I don’t want you to say I palmed the thing.
Observe carefully.”
He slid the match-box half open and, holding the box so that they
could all see plainly, he placed a florin of his own among the
matches.
“My coin’s under the picture of the Swan, you see?”
He closed the box and handed it over to Wraxall.
“Now put your florin in at the other end of the box. You can mark your
coin, if you like.”
Wraxall contented himself with noting the date of the florin before
putting it in.
“Now shut the box,” directed Douglas, “and hand it over to me. Just
chuck it across.”
Wraxall did so. Douglas caught it and held it out so that it was well
away from his sleeve.
“This is the sticky bit,” he announced. “Are you all sure that both
coins are in the box? Quite sure? Well, seeing’s believing. Have a
look.”
Holding the box in one hand, he slid the inner case forward with his
finger until one coin showed. Then, without using his left hand, he
reversed the box and showed the other end open, so that they could
satisfy themselves that the two coins were still there.
“All content? Four bob in the box? I’ll just show you them again.”
He did so. As he closed the box for the last time, his voice changed
as though he were trying to suppress his satisfaction at having got
through his sleight of hand without detection.
“Now, Wraxall. I’ll sell you the box as it stands for three bob. Take
the offer?”
Wraxall pondered for an instant.
“It’s this coinage bother,” he explained. “Three bob? That’s three
shillings, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m offering to self you the thing for three shillings. You
think it contains four shillings—two florins. I don’t guarantee that.
I simply sell the box, matches included with the other contents.
Going . . . going . . .”
“I take you!” snapped Wraxall, certain that he would have detected any
legerdemain.
“Right-o!” agreed Douglas, pleasantly. “You win. Here’s the box. I’ll
just go through the formality of collecting your three bob, though.”
He tossed the box over to Wraxall, who caught it and paid Douglas
three shillings. The conjurer grinned mockingly.
“Quite satisfied with your bargain? Have a look inside the box. Both
florins present and correct? You’ll be glad to see _your own one
again_!”
Wraxall saw the point almost immediately.
“Confound you, Fairmile! You’ve had the nerve to sell me my own
florin! So I’ve paid three shillings for _your_ florin. Is that it?
And you muddled me up with all this talk about sleight of hand. That’s
neat. That’s very neat indeed.”
“Well, here’s your three shillings,” said Douglas tossing them across
one by one. “Now I’ll take my florin and we’re back at the start
again. I’d be ashamed to rob anyone by that trick.”
“You mean you’d hate to take advantage of the weak-minded?” corrected
the American, accepting his discomfiture with a smile.
“No. That trick’s really an obstinacy corrector. You’d be astonished
to see how often it comes off—five times out of six at the lowest,
I’ve found. Well, here’s another.”
He turned to Eric Dangerfield.
“Got four pennies by any chance.”
Eric searched his pockets and found the required coins.
“Now to avoid disputes later,” Douglas explained, “you’ll count ’em
out one by one on to the table beside you.”
Eric carefully counted out the four coins, putting them down one at a
time.
“Four, I make it,” he stated.
Douglas held out his hand with the fingers outspread.
“See it? Quite empty? No trap-doors or magic cabinets concealed
anywhere? See the back too? Well, put your pennies into my palm. . . .
I now close my hand. I take out my handkerchief. I shake it, showing
that no coin is concealed in it. I cover my hand. Now, I say I’ve got
_five_ pennies in my hand. You can take off the handkerchief, if you
like. _Five_ pennies. Give me a bob if I’m wrong?”
Eric Dangerfield had been watching closely.
“All right,” he agreed.
“Well, then. I _am_ wrong, and you owe me a bob. I didn’t bet I was
right. I said, ‘Give me a bob if I’m _wrong_.’”
Eric Dangerfield fished out a shilling but Douglas refused to take it.
He was about to continue the prearranged series of tests when, to his
surprise, Westenhanger introduced a variation in the programme.
“Before I forget, Douglas, you might give me the name of the place
where you got that new racket. I want to make a note of it.”
He felt in his pockets, then applied to Eric.
“Got a fountain pen, by any chance, Dangerfield?”
Eric took one from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to
Westenhanger, who had pulled out a piece of paper. Westenhanger put
out his hand and then withdrew it again.
“I hate using anyone else’s pen for fear of spoiling the nib. I write
heavier than most people. Would you mind jotting the address down?”
Eric wrote down the address which Douglas gave, and both men noted
that he used his pen in the normal way. Westenhanger put the paper in
his pocket and again surprised Douglas by going to the window and
looking out.
“It’s clearing up a bit. What about some fresh air, Douglas?”
This was the prearranged signal for breaking off operations; but
Douglas was puzzled by its coming so early.
“Oh, all right,” he agreed. “If you want to get soaked, I don’t mind.”
Eric could not be expected to join them, and Wraxall, for the sake of
politeness, had to stay behind to keep the lame man company. As soon
as they were well away from the house, Douglas showed his surprise.
“You broke that off a bit soon, Conway. Of course, I’m quite
satisfied. They’re both right-handed. Wraxall handed the box and
grabbed at the shillings quite according to plan; and Dangerfield
counted his lot of coins in the normal way. But I’d liked to have
worked a few more stunts on them, just for certainty’s sake.”
“Not worth while,” Westenhanger said. “I’ve got something absolutely
certain to go on. As it happens, you’re wrong, Douglas. Wraxall is
right-handed. But the other fellow is ambidextrous. He uses his right
hand for hand-movements; but when his arm comes in, he’s left-handed.”
“How do you make that out?” demanded Douglas in surprise.
“Just an accidental observation. He carries his fountain pen in his
right-hand waistcoat pocket. You and I carry ours in the left pocket,
so as to get at it easily with our right hands. He uses his left hand
to take it from his pocket, and then he passes the pen to his right
hand before he uses it. You see he uses his arm in taking it out, and
he’s left-armed. That’s absolutely conclusive to my mind, and I didn’t
want to run any chance of arousing suspicion by going through the
whole programme. I think we’ve got our man.”
“That was pretty cute. I was watching him, but I didn’t spot the
thing, although I was on the look-out for it.”
“It was just a bit of luck. Nothing to boast about.”
Douglas considered for a time.
“Well, where do we stand? Motive? He’s hard up and lost a lot at
cards. Opportunity? He was wandering about the house late that night.
Besides, his room is close to the one the Talisman was in. He’s
left-armed—the type we’re looking for. He went up to town next
morning—possibly to get the thing out of the house for fear of a
search, even if he didn’t dispose of it in some way then—pawning or
some such business. And, by the way, he’s got lamed in some way. I
wonder if there is a man-trap after all, and he got mixed up in it
slightly.”
Westenhanger listened to this catalogue with a gloomy face.
“There isn’t an atom of real proof in the whole lot. We could never
satisfy anyone on the strength of that stuff alone. I’d never mention
a word to anyone about it, Douglas; because we must have definite
proof. And I don’t quite see our next move.”
“Watch him, and keep on watching, on the chance of something turning
up, I suppose.”
“It’s a poor chance,” said Westenhanger.
That idea remained with him for the rest of the day. The step-by-step
process of elimination had been carried through with complete success;
but it was useless to pretend to himself that the result was
conclusive evidence. At the best it became a case of “Not Proven”: a
moral certainty, perhaps, but nothing more. Something further was
needed to establish the identity of the culprit beyond doubt. And the
more he puzzled over the problem, the less chance could he see of
bringing the thing home. One might devise a scheme for trapping a
fellow-guest; but how could one out-manœuvre a man working on his own
ground with complete knowledge of all the possibilities of the
environment?
Even when he went to bed, Westenhanger lay awake seeking some solution
of the problem. At last he realised that he was unlikely to get any
further forward; but by that time he had fretted himself into a state
of complete wakefulness.
“No use going on like this,” he reflected at last. “I must get
something to take my mind off the thing. It’s infernally tantalising
to be so near it and yet not to hit on the right track. I’ll go down
to the library and get a book. I can read myself to sleep all
right—push the affair out of my thoughts. If I lie here I’ll simply
worry at it till morning.”
He got up and put on his dressing-gown. His watch showed him that it
was in the small hours; and all the house was quiet. He opened his
door cautiously, took his candle with him, and went down the stairs.
When he reached the hall below, he was surprised to find a light
shining from the open door of old Dangerfield’s study; and as he came
opposite the room he looked in. Rollo was sitting, fully dressed,
beside the fire; and at the sound of Westenhanger’s approach he
glanced up. Westenhanger, feeling that his midnight perambulations
demanded some explanation, turned into the study. Rollo showed no
surprise but invited him to sit down on the opposite side of the
hearth.
“Got a touch of insomnia, to-night,” explained Westenhanger, “so I
thought I’d come down for a book and see if I could read myself to
sleep. I was just on the way to the library when I saw the light in
here.”
Rollo’s face expressed some concern.
“I hope you aren’t subject to it,” he said. “Anything going wrong with
one’s sleep is a terrible thing.”
Westenhanger detected more feeling in the comment than he had
expected; and for a moment he was surprised. Then it flashed across
his mind that Rollo probably knew of Helga’s somnambulism and had thus
a keener interest in such matters than most people. He hastened to
reassure the old man.
“No; it’s not chronic. Just a touch of it one gets at times.”
A fleeting expression changed Rollo Dangerfield’s face for an instant;
but it was gone before Westenhanger could identify it.
“I sometimes get it myself when I’m worried,” said old Dangerfield.
“It’s a bad business if it gets a firm hold on one. You’re not worried
about anything, I hope?” he added, sympathetically.
Westenhanger hardly cared to tell a downright lie.
“Oh, nothing in particular, nothing to do with my own affairs,” he
said, trying to pass the matter off lightly.
But Rollo fastened upon the tacit admission.
“You are worried, then? I’m very sorry. Nothing serious, I trust?”
Then, as if suddenly struck by a thought, he demanded:
“It’s not this Talisman affair, is it?”
Taken by surprise, Westenhanger’s face betrayed him. Rollo’s eyes
missed nothing.
“You really mustn’t worry over that. The Talisman is all right, I
assure you. If that were the only worry I had, I should count myself
fortunate.”
He broke off in order to listen for something; and Westenhanger could
see that his ears were strained to catch some faint sound, which he
evidently expected. After a few seconds the old man’s vigilance seemed
to relax; his eyes still turned to the open door, but apparently he
was satisfied that nothing was coming. Westenhanger had little
difficulty in reading the situation. Rollo was on guard to watch over
his daughter if she found her way downstairs during her sleep-walking.
Then, suddenly, it occurred to him that Rollo’s post lay on the road
to the Corinthian’s Room. Could it be that the old man had some idea
that Helga’s somnambulism was connected with the loss of the Talisman?
She might have taken it during her sleep, and he might be watching her
to discover, if possible, where she had concealed it. He resolved to
push his inquiries, even at the cost of some failure in courtesy.
“I believe, Mr. Dangerfield, that you know all the time what has
become of the Talisman. Is that why its disappearance doesn’t worry
you?”
Rollo’s eyes grew suddenly stern.
“Do you suggest that I am shielding anyone?” he demanded, bluntly.
“That’s rather a grave charge.”
“It wasn’t brought by me,” Westenhanger exclaimed. Put in that precise
form, the matter took on an aspect which he had not considered at all.
“Certainly I never suggested such a thing! I never so much as thought
of it.”
Rollo acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head. Then,
after a time, he spoke again.
“I could hardly complain if some such idea came into your mind. But no
matter how strong the motive, I doubt if I would yield to it in this
case. I would never dream of letting a guest of mine lie under
suspicion when a word from me would clear up the matter. Never.
Besides, whom could I shield?”
He met Westenhanger’s eye frankly.
“There are only two possible people: Eric and Helga. You might suspect
either of them; but what does it amount to? Eric could have taken the
thing, undoubtedly. He may have reasons for taking it. He’s
left-handed, like the thief. . . .”
“You knew the thief was left-handed?” asked Westenhanger in surprise.
“So did you, evidently,” the old man retorted, unmoved. “It was
obvious to anyone who saw how the cabinet was opened.”
“Yes,” admitted Westenhanger, rather crestfallen to find that another
person had arrived at the same conclusion by the same line of
reasoning.
“But Eric didn’t take the Talisman,” the old man continued. “You will
have to take my word for that. I can’t, of course, prove it to you.
It’s a difficult business, proving a negative. But I give you my word
of honour that Eric didn’t take it. Eric knows what he knows. He
wouldn’t take it.”
“You mean the Dangerfield Secret?” demanded Westenhanger, astonished
to find that matter cropping up in this connection.
“If you choose to call it so,” said old Rollo, dismissing the matter
by his tone. “But if I am not supposed to be shielding Eric—and I am
not shielding him, as I told you—then it must be . . .”
He broke off sharply and held up his hand in caution. Westenhanger,
listening with all his ears, heard the faint sound of a step on the
staircase. Rollo rose silently to his feet with another gesture of
warning and stepped lightly over to the door. Almost as he reached it,
Helga’s figure appeared in the corridor. She passed without a look
aside, though the glare of the lighted room fell full on her face as
she went by.
Old Rollo softly switched on the corridor lights and fell in behind
her. Westenhanger, picking his steps with caution, followed. Helga,
unconscious of their presence, led them down to the door of the
Corinthian’s Room, which she entered. Westenhanger had a hope that
possibly her movements might throw light upon the mystery; but when he
reached the door, Rollo had switched on the lights, and it soon grew
clear that she had no interest in the cabinet. She wandered aimlessly
about the room for a time, then returned to the door and came out
again, the two men standing aside to let her pass.
Rollo waited until she had gone some distance down the corridor, then
he whispered to Westenhanger.
“Please put out the lights; I must see her safely back to her room.”
Their figures retreated down the stretch, turned at the staircase and
disappeared. Westenhanger waited for a time. Then, remembering the
original object of his journey, he passed into the library, selected a
book, and went upstairs to his room, after extinguishing the lights.
But his book helped him very little.
“Old Rollo was speaking the truth, I’m sure. He doesn’t believe Eric’s
mixed up in the thing at all,” he mused. “But that doesn’t necessarily
prove that Eric didn’t take it after all. We’ve eliminated everyone
except Eric. He’s the only one who fits the facts. And yet old
Dangerfield spoke as if he had absolute certainty. What was it he
said? ‘He knows what he knows.’ But what does he know? This
Dangerfield Secret? Is there some deadly business connected with the
guarding of the Talisman, so dangerous that no one would risk touching
it ‘if he knows what he knows’? The old man, if I read him right,
isn’t a mystery-monger for the sheer love of it. There never was a
less theatrical person; he’s natural all through, and absolutely
straight.”
His thoughts turned to the scene he had just witnessed.
“No wonder the poor old chap’s worried. A sleep-walking daughter is
enough to worry anyone. There’s no saying what mischief she might get
into.”
A fresh line opened up his mind.
“He said he wasn’t shielding anyone. Did he mean merely that he wasn’t
covering up a theft? If Helga took the thing while she was asleep,
there would be no question of ‘shielding’ at all. I wish that girl
hadn’t arrived just when she did. She interrupted him just at the
critical moment. Perhaps he knows she took it and is simply waiting to
get it back eventually. That would account for all this coolness under
a huge loss. It wouldn’t be a real loss at all. The thing’s bound to
be somewhere near by; it’s only a case of laying hands on it
eventually. She’d be sure to give it away sooner or later if she goes
on sleep-walking. And that’s one of the reasons why he was watching
for her to-night, perhaps.”