On the following day, Westenhanger took the earliest opportunity of
informing Douglas about the developments in the night. He had been
strongly impressed by old Dangerfield’s denial of Eric’s
responsibility, and he felt that it would be unfair to suppress this
information and so leave suspicion afloat in his friend’s mind.
“Well, we can take the old man’s word for it,” was Douglas’s verdict,
when he had heard the whole story. “He wouldn’t tell a lie, I’m sure
of that. And, apparently, from what you say, he thought he had good
enough grounds, though he didn’t throw much light on them.”
“He convinced me. I’m quite satisfied, now, we’re on the wrong track.”
“Then the great elimination stunt has been a wash-out?”
Westenhanger gloomily accepted this estimate.
“It’s landed us with the wrong man. I can’t help feeling that,” he
said. “By the way, Douglas, is Helga left-handed by any chance?”
“No. I’ve played golf and tennis with her, and she’s as right-handed
as anyone, as far as I can see.”
“Then we can exclude her.”
“So it’s a case of the Ten Little Nigger Boys—‘and then there was
none’?”
“It looks like it. Elimination’s a sound enough system; but we’ve gone
off the track somewhere, evidently. We started with three tests,
didn’t we? Left-handedness—Motive—and Opportunity. I still believe in
the left-handedness. It’s the only definite thing we’ve got, even if
it has proved a wash-out in this Eric affair.”
Douglas nodded assent to this.
“Then there must be something wrong with the others, evidently.
Suppose we drop the opportunity factor. Really, anyone might have been
abroad that night and no one would know about it except by chance.”
“Right.”
“That leaves motive. I don’t see how we’re going to get beyond our
earlier notions on that point.”
“Slipped a cog, somewhere, then? Just what I was thinking. And I think
I know where it slipped. I’ve seen something that made me sit up
somewhat. Let’s stick to left-handedness as a sure winner, for a
change, and see if I can’t throw some light on things.”
“What did you see?”
Douglas lit a cigarette before replying.
“Last night,” he went on, “while you and Eileen were wandering around
outside, admiring the moon after dinner, our three pariahs—Freddie,
Morchard, and Mrs. Scorton—got up a little game of cut-throat. I
expect they felt a bit chary of asking any of the rest of us to make
up a four. At any rate, they were playing three-handed, and I happened
to be sitting across the room. I wasn’t so engrossed in Cynthia’s
conversation that I couldn’t keep one eye on their table now and
again.”
“Get on with it,” advised Westenhanger.
“Now this is what I saw,” continued Douglas, seriously. “Freddie and
Morchard are normal, beyond a doubt. I watched ’em very carefully, and
that’s a cert. But the fair lady deals with her left hand. Strange I
never noticed it before; but one seldom looks at a dealer, except
casually, I suppose. However, there it is.”
Westenhanger considered the matter for a time without comment.
“There’s no motive,” he concluded. Then his memory spontaneously threw
up the incident of Eileen Cressage’s mirror. “But perhaps that’s where
we went wrong. We’ve been on the hunt for a motive the whole time,
Douglas. What about scrapping that notion and trying kleptomania for a
change?”
“I was just working up to that point myself.”
“Well, Eileen’s silver mirror was taken from her room the other day.
That’s another motiveless affair—even more so than the Talisman.”
“Ah, that puts a new face on things. I didn’t know about that. And I
can put something else in the kitty, judging from that. Mrs. Brent’s
gold wrist-watch has gone astray. She’s been hunting for it all over
the place. Of course I never thought of it having been taken. But this
mirror-affair connects ’em up nicely. It’s just the pointless sort of
snatching that one might expect, if your notion’s right.”
“Well, don’t let’s be in too much of a hurry this time,” cautioned
Westenhanger. “We made average asses of ourselves with our last dip in
the lucky-bag. It looks as if we might be nearer the centre this time;
but we’re up against the same old bother. How’re we going to prove
anything?”
Douglas moved uneasily in his seat.
“I’m not over-keen on the job, Conway, and that’s a fact. The only way
of clearing the thing up is to watch her. And I don’t quite fancy the
job of spy.”
“No more do I. But if her hands are clean, watching won’t do any harm
so long as nobody else knows about it. And if she’s the thief, she
deserves all she gets. She did all she could to put the blame at
Eileen’s door—don’t forget that, Douglas. And if you do, I’m not
likely to let it slip my memory. That was outside the rules of the
game, as Mrs. Brent says.”
Somewhat ruefully, Douglas admitted the justice of this view.
“I suppose you’re right, Conway. I see your case all right. But,” he
added firmly, “not even the best of causes is going to make me put on
false whiskers or reach-me-downs. Worming one’s way into people’s
confidence is also barred. Likewise overhearing conversations.
Anything in the way of measuring foot-prints or hanging around pubs,
will be cheerfully carried out; but nothing of an ungenteel nature
will be handled by this firm. That’s that!”
“Don’t worry, Douglas. It won’t even run to a false nose. All I
propose to do is to keep my eyes open.”
“Dashed moderate, I call it. Trade Union hours, then. You can have the
night shift if you like. I feel generous this morning.”
Westenhanger guessed what was at the back of Douglas’s reluctance.
“Get one thing clearly into your mind, Douglas. You’re not spying on a
woman—you’re watching for a thief. Give chivalry a miss. It’s quite
out of place after what’s happened.”
“Very well,” Douglas conceded, “if you put it that way I suppose it
can be done. I’ll regard it partly as a medical case: Kleptomania—its
Cause, Detection, and Cure. That makes it seem a bit more respectable.
Frankly, Conway, it’s not a job I like very much.”
“I don’t revel in it,” Westenhanger admitted, gruffly. “But I’m going
to see it through, if I can. Somebody ought to pay for the trouble
they’ve caused.”
Douglas looked away.
“Well,” he said, at last, “I suppose if it had been Cynthia instead of
Eileen I’d be inclined to go in with both feet. I see your point,
Conway. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Westenhanger made no reply.
When he considered the matter later on, Conway Westenhanger had to
admit to himself that he had embarked upon a forlorn hope. Nothing but
pure luck was likely to bring the thing to success. And the chances
against any result seemed tremendous. He could not dog his quarry
continuously for any length of time, since that would inevitably lead
to a disclosure of his intentions. For a large part of the day and
during most of the night Mrs. Caistor Scorton would be outside his
sphere of observation, and that left him very little chance of
success. The possibility of enlisting assistance he rejected
immediately. None of the party was likely to be useful. Eileen was the
only one whom he might have approached in the matter and the relations
between her and Mrs. Caistor Scorton made her worse than useless for
that particular purpose, apart from all other objections to the idea.
Westenhanger resigned himself to waiting for the help of chance, with
a full appreciation of the odds against success.
That night he and Douglas sat up later than usual. All the other
guests had gone earlier to bed and the house was dark. As the two men
came out into the corridor they found the door of Rollo Dangerfield’s
study wide open, and a beam of light shone from it across the floor.
“The old man’s on guard again,” Westenhanger hazarded to Douglas in a
low voice. “He’s having a worrying time, I’m afraid. Hard lines having
a thing like that on one’s shoulders.”
But when they passed the open door they found Eric on the watch
instead of his uncle. He wished them good-night as they went by, but
showed no desire for their company.
“They’re taking it in turns, evidently,” Douglas guessed as they went
up the stairs. “Ah! perhaps that accounts for Eric being about in the
small hours, that night of the storm. It may have been his turn for
duty. We don’t know how long this affair has been going on.”
“That’s probably it,” Westenhanger agreed. “But if he were sitting up
how did the thief get into the Corinthian’s Room undetected?”
“Oh, I expect Helga only walks about once in the night; and once
they’ve seen her safe back to her room they can go to bed themselves.
After that, the coast would be clear. You remember I saw the Talisman
in its place about one in the morning?”
Westenhanger went to bed that night with the consciousness that he had
accomplished absolutely nothing during the day. He had trusted to
luck, but luck had not served. His hopes were gradually lessening as
time went on.
“Something may turn up,” he reflected, without optimism, as he
undressed.
Something did “turn up”; but it was the last thing that he could have
foreseen. On coming down to breakfast next morning he found Freddie
Stickney busily spreading the news to Nina, Cynthia and Douglas.
“Heard the latest?” Freddie demanded as Westenhanger entered the room.
“The Talisman’s turned up again—safe in its cabinet once more, just as
old Dangerfield prophesied.”
“Who told you that?”
Westenhanger was completely taken aback by the news.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Freddie assured him. “You don’t catch me
swallowing things on mere hearsay. I’ve been along to the Corinthian’s
Room myself and had a look. And there it is, as large as life. Stuck
under the glass bell, just as it used to be.”
Westenhanger took his seat at the table without comment. This latest
episode in the chain of events seemed beyond understanding. Given that
a thief had taken the Talisman, why had the thing come back at all?
All that the thief had to do was to leave it in its original place of
concealment, if he feared detection. To put it back in the cabinet was
to run a second risk of being discovered, especially now that one of
the Dangerfields was on guard over Helga each night. And if it was not
a case of theft, why remove the thing at all? Before he could continue
his line of thought he was interrupted.
“What do you make of it?” Freddie was taking up his rôle of general
inquisitor once more. “It seems a bit rum, doesn’t it? And old
Dangerfield’s had the laugh, after all. He swore it would turn up
again—and here it is! Queer, eh?”
“Very strange,” Westenhanger agreed coldly.
Freddie was outside the scope of suspicion now, but Westenhanger had
other reasons for disliking him. And what infernal impudence of the
little brute to start this kind of thing again after the fiasco of his
last effort in the business. Freddie, however, was not to be
discouraged by coldness. His bright little eyes flickered from face to
face, and he continued his remarks quite unperturbed by the obviously
hostile atmosphere.
“What’s that old tag about the man who finds a thing being the one who
knows where to look for it?” he went on. “I begin to think it’s a
practical joke after all. The old man’s been pulling our legs! He laid
off all that stuff about the Talisman being able to look after itself.
Then he took it away himself that night, eh? And now he brings it back
again, and he laughs in his sleeve at us. How’s that, umpire?”
He glanced round the table for applause, but received none.
“If you ask me, Freddie,” Douglas pronounced bluntly, “it proves two
things up to the hilt. One is that you have the nerve to sit down at
breakfast and criticise your host behind his back. The other is that
you don’t know Mr. Dangerfield. He’s the last man who’d play a silly
game of that sort. Anyone with two ounces of grey matter in his skull
would see that.”
Douglas’s rebuke would have silenced most people, but Freddie’s skin
was proof against even this attack.
“Think so?” he asked blandly. “Well, what better theory have you got
yourself?”
Douglas took no notice of the query.
“Well, I’m very glad Mr. Dangerfield has got it back,” Nina said,
ignoring Freddie’s remark. “It’s been so uncomfortable all the time to
feel that he’d lost a thing like that—a thing he cared for so much.”
“He didn’t seem to worry over it,” Freddie reminded her.
“Mr. Dangerfield’s a thoroughbred,” Cynthia commented. “No matter how
he felt about it he’d never show it to us.”
“You think not? No? Well, perhaps not,” the irrepressible Freddie
conceded graciously. “That’s one way of looking at it, certainly.”
Westenhanger took no part in the talk. His mind was busy with the task
of fitting this new evidence to the earlier events. If a thief had
taken the thing, why had the Talisman come back? The only possible
explanation was that the thief had taken fright. But why should he
take fright? So far as Westenhanger knew, nothing had come out which
made the solution of the problem any clearer, and only imminent
exposure could have forced the culprit to disgorge. Days had passed
since the loss of the Talisman. There had been plenty of time to get
it into a place of safe concealment. Why take the risk of replacing it
in the cabinet? There seemed to be no plausible answer to that
question.
But if it wasn’t a thief, then it must have been one of the
Dangerfields. One could leave old Rollo out of the business. He was
the last man to play a practical joke on his guests—especially a
practical joke which carried a tang as nasty as this affair did. Helga
was another possible agent, and an innocent agent if it did turn out
that she had a hand in the thing. Westenhanger began to incline
towards this solution. But then Helga, according to Douglas, was
right-handed, while the Talisman had been removed by someone who was
obviously left-handed. Perhaps one turned left-handed in one’s sleep.
But on recalling fragments of his dreams, Westenhanger had to admit
that he remembered himself as right-handed during his sleep. That
seemed to exclude Helga.
Then it flashed across his mind that Eric had been on the watch on
both nights, on the date of the Talisman’s vanishing and—last
night—when it returned. He had the place to himself on both occasions,
and could do as he chose. He was left-handed, too. But against this,
there was old Rollo’s statement, evidently made in good faith.
Eileen Cressage came into the room as he reached this point in his
cogitation. She sat down beside him, and he hastened to clear up an
item which had occurred to him.
“Had young Dangerfield sprained his ankle before he left here with you
that morning?”
“No. He was all right. He sprained it in London, somehow—getting out
of the way of a taxi, I think he said.”
“Funny thing to happen, surely?”
“Oh, he slipped on the kerb-stone, or something like that.”
Westenhanger’s half-formulated idea broke down. It was quite evident
that Eric had not got his injury in connection with the theft of the
Talisman. It was not a case of his having been half-caught in the
man-trap. Probably there was no man-trap at all. Rollo had denied its
existence, and one could take Rollo’s word for things. At any rate,
Westenhanger felt he had given every possibility a fair examination.
Mrs. Caistor Scorton came into the room, and Westenhanger glanced up
as she entered. Freddie broke out at once.
“Heard the latest, Mrs. Caistor Scorton? The Talisman’s come back!”
Westenhanger had his eyes on Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s face as Freddie
spoke; and he was amazed to see the effect of the words. Incredulity,
stupefaction, and fear, swept in succession over her features almost
in an instant. Then she regained command of herself, her thin lips
tightened, and she walked to her place without showing any further
sign of emotion. Only Westenhanger and Freddie seemed to have noticed
anything abnormal, so quickly had she recovered her self-control. The
other members of the party had not looked up as she came into the
room.
“Now we’ve got something,” Westenhanger commented inwardly. “That shot
took her absolutely off her guard. She knows something about the
business—anyone can see that. She was absolutely taken aback by
Freddie. She’ll want to know all about it, and then perhaps she’ll
have to do something. If we can only keep an eye on her through to-day
we may get to the bottom of the business at last.”
He dawdled through his breakfast, lending an ear to Freddie’s
repetition of the tale of the Talisman’s return. Mrs. Caistor Scorton
listened eagerly, he could see, and her breakfast remained almost
untouched. Westenhanger learned nothing further. When Eileen rose from
the table he accompanied her out of the room.
“You’re not doing anything important this morning, are you?” he
questioned in a low voice, as soon as the door closed behind them.
“Nothing in particular.”
“I want you to put yourself in my hands, then. Don’t ask questions,
please. I wish you to be an absolutely unbiassed witness, if anything
turns up. But keep your eyes open. I want you to pay special attention
to Mrs. Caistor Scorton to-day. It’s most important. Watch everything
she does closely, and we’ll compare notes afterwards.”
He led her to some seats near the main entrance, from which they had a
view of the corridor, and when they had ensconced themselves he began
to talk of indifferent matters, so as to give a semblance of
naturalness to their attitude. Very soon Mrs. Caistor Scorton,
accompanied by Freddie, came out of the breakfast room and passed
along the corridor towards the Corinthian’s Room.
“Quick! I want to overtake them,” ordered Westenhanger.
He and Eileen came up with the others just before reaching the end of
the passage. Westenhanger stepped forward and opened the door, so that
he could see Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s face as she entered, but he
learned very little. She seemed to have regained complete control of
herself.
All four crossed the chess-board and approached the cabinet. Freddie
had made no mistake. There on its velvet bed lay the Talisman,
protected by the bell of tinted glass which had been moved back to its
old position. Both doors of the cabinet were closed. Everything seemed
to have returned to its normal state.
Westenhanger, covertly scrutinising Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s face, saw a
flash of expression which took him by surprise. She seemed to be
witnessing some incredible happening—something beyond the bounds of
the possible. It almost suggested that she had disbelieved Freddie and
had been staggered by the actual sight of the Talisman. In an instant
the signs of bewilderment vanished and she again had herself under
control. Freddie had evidently noticed her amazement.
“Oh, it’s come home again, all right,” he said, triumphantly. “Old
Dangerfield was sound enough, after all. But how it got here is a
mystery, isn’t it, Mrs. Caistor Scorton?”
“I don’t understand it,” she admitted, dully, and as she spoke she
allowed her face to reveal the stupefaction which was evidently still
her dominant feeling.
“Well I’m very glad to see it again,” said Eileen. “It’s a relief to
find that it wasn’t stolen after all.”
Her glance made Mrs. Caistor Scorton wince. Neither of them had
forgotten Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s evidence against Eileen; and the
older woman evidently had little difficulty in reading the girl’s
feelings—she avoided any recognition of the underlying meaning in
Eileen’s last remark by turning to Freddie Stickney.
“I really hardly believed your story at first, Mr. Stickney; but one
can’t disbelieve one’s eyes. It seems incredible that it has come back
again. I feel almost inclined to doubt it even now.”
“We can soon settle that for you,” said Freddie. “I’ll take it out of
the case and you can handle it.”
Westenhanger broke in with a violence which surprised them all.
“Paws off, Freddie! Don’t lay a finger on it!”
He laid a rough hand on Freddie’s shoulder and drew him back from the
cabinet. Then, noticing their surprise, he went on in a milder tone.
“Mr. Dangerfield refused to allow any of us to touch it, the night he
showed it to us. He objects to it being handled. That’s enough for me.
We can’t go against his wishes behind his back. Understand?”
Freddie acquiesced sulkily. Mrs. Caistor Scorton relieved the strain
by looking at her watch and discovering that she had something to do.
As they left the room, Westenhanger lagged behind with Eileen for a
moment.
“Keep her in sight at any cost. I’m going up to my room for a moment.
I’ll join you again.”
When he returned, he found Eileen standing at the main entrance with
Freddie Stickney. Mrs. Caistor Scorton had disappeared.
“Shall we go now?” Westenhanger asked the girl. She nodded and they
shook off Freddie without much difficulty. He supposed they were going
to play tennis. Eileen led the way down into the gardens.
“She went off almost as soon as you went upstairs,” she told
Westenhanger, as they hurried along. “I stood at the door and watched
the road she took. We ought to make up on her in a moment or two if we
hurry.”
“I don’t want to make up on her. I want to follow her without showing
ourselves. She’s making for the Pool, if I’m not mistaken. That will
suit very well.”
He took a pair of prismatic glasses from his pocket and slung them
round his neck.
“We may want to watch from a distance. That’s why I had to go upstairs
for these.”
Eileen nodded.
“It’s the Talisman affair, isn’t it?” she asked. “I don’t quite see
what it all means, but you know something, obviously. Why are we
scurrying after her just now? The Talisman’s back again. I don’t see
what you expect to find out.”
“No questions, Eileen!” Westenhanger smiled. “If I’m right, you’ll see
it all in a few minutes. I don’t want to put any pre-conceived notions
into your mind.”
The girl studied his face in silence as they walked on. “Very well,”
she said. “But to tell you the truth I’m getting rather wearied of
Talisman mysteries. It seems to me I’ve had more than my share of
them.”
“This will be the last of them, perhaps, if we’re lucky.”
As he spoke they drew near the edge of the spinney which lay about the
Pool, and he made a gesture of caution to the girl. They could see
Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s figure crossing the open glade in front of
them.
“Now watch with all your eyes,” ordered Westenhanger, lifting his
glasses as he spoke.
Mrs. Caistor Scorton glanced round nervously once or twice; then,
apparently satisfied that there were no onlookers, she made her way to
a pollard willow which overhung the water. Still on the alert, she put
her hand far down into a hollow in the tree-trunk and drew out
something. It was too far off for Eileen to see more than the
movement, but Westenhanger whispered a running description of what his
glasses showed him.
“She’s taken something from the hole. . . . It’s very small. . . . I
can hardly make it out. Gold, apparently, by the glint. . . . Now
she’s putting her hand in again . . . Something bigger this time . . .
Yes . . . Your silver mirror. . . . It’s tarnished a bit, I’m
afraid. . . . Now for it. She’s trying again. . . .”
His tone showed a sharp disappointment.
“It looks like a silver-mounted paper-knife. . . . Yes, that’s
it. . . . Ah! I thought so. She’s got more in that hoard of
hers. . . . Something moderate-sized this time. . . . Confound it!
She’s turned away from us. I can’t see it. . . . Now she’s putting
them all back again. Quick, Eileen! Back along the path and get in
among the bushes. Hide! As quick as you can. Don’t make a sound.”
They managed to conceal themselves before Mrs. Caistor Scorton came
back into the belt of trees; and from behind the bushes they watched
her go past. Believing herself alone, she took no thought for her
expression; and on her face they read the utmost bewilderment, faintly
tinged with fear.
“She hasn’t spotted it,” Westenhanger thought to himself. “She ought
to have done. But I expect she’s completely jarred up. Well, this is
the end of her little game.”
As soon as Mrs. Caistor Scorton had disappeared Westenhanger came out
of his concealment and beckoned Eileen back to the path.
“Now that the coast’s clear,” he said, “we can have a look at the
magpie’s hoard. No questions yet!” he added, as she began to frame
one. “Facts, first of all; and you can draw your own conclusions.”
They went down to the tree; and Westenhanger soon found the hollow
which Mrs. Caistor Scorton had used as her cache. Putting his hand
into it, he drew out in succession the articles which he had seen
through his glasses.
“There’s Mrs. Brent’s wrist-watch,” he said, holding up his first
trophy. “No! Don’t touch it! I’ll lay it on the grass.”
Again he put his hand into the hollow. The second object gave him more
trouble, but at last he managed to humour it up the channel in the
tree trunk.
“Your mirror. What a pity it’s in such a state! No permanent damage
done, though. It’ll clean up all right. You can have that.”
He handed it to her and re-inserted his hand into the hole.
“The paper-knife. Don’t touch!”
“Why, that’s the one that used to be on the library table.”
“So it is,” said Westenhanger. “Now for the star piece of the
collection.”
He drew out the fourth object, and at the sight of it Eileen exclaimed
in astonishment:
“The Talisman! This is impossible, Conway! We left the Talisman safe
in the house not a quarter of an hour ago. She can’t have stolen it a
second time.”
She put out her hand for the armlet, but Westenhanger sharply drew it
back out of her reach.
“Paws off, Eileen, as I remarked to Freddie not so long ago. Under no
circumstances whatever are you to touch this thing until I give you
permission.”
“Let me see it, then. I won’t finger it.”
He held it out for her inspection and she examined it minutely.
“It _is_ the Talisman!”
She thought for a time, while Westenhanger watched her in silence.
“Oh, now I see it, I think. There are two Talismans? Or there’s a
Talisman and a replica. Mrs. Caistor Scorton stole this one. The other
one’s up at the house now. She must have got a shock when she heard
the Talisman had come back again. Is that it?”
Westenhanger’s reply seemed irrelevant.
“Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s not a very clever person like you.”
“Ah! now I see what it means. She stole this one; and when she saw the
other one in the case she was absolutely puzzled. She never thought of
a replica. And so she thought she’d come up against magic and spells.
Is that it? No wonder she was so staggered. I was completely puzzled
myself for a moment or two, and I expect her conscience—if she has
one—must have upset her a bit.”
“That’s how I explain it myself,” said Westenhanger. “But proceed.
What else do you make of it?”
The girl considered for a time; then at last she hit on a solution.
“Of course, it’s obvious when one puts two and two together. The
Dangerfields never kept the Talisman in the cabinet at all. They had a
replica for show and they kept the real Talisman in a safe place.”
“Yes,” agreed Westenhanger, “and that would account for the bell of
tinted glass. The tinge would conceal the fact that the stones in this
thing are paste. Even an expert couldn’t see anything wrong with the
water of them, if he looked through that dingy cover.”
“You think that’s why Mr. Dangerfield wouldn’t allow it to be taken
out of the cabinet?”
“Quite probably.”
“And that’s why he has been so easy-going over the whole thing? He
didn’t stand to lose much—only a piece of sham jewellery.”
“Obviously correct, I think. ‘It’s very clever of you to have noticed
it,’ as you once said to me.”
Eileen laughed.
“How you seem to treasure my sayings!”
She examined the armlet again.
“So this is the thing that brought me into all that trouble. And it’s
only a sham after all! By the way, didn’t Mr. Dangerfield say
something rather bitter about the original Talisman that night he told
us the legend? Something about it’s being a sham and a fraud from the
very start?”
“It wasn’t quite that. He said it was a memorial of lying and
cheating.”
“It seems an unpleasant sort of thing altogether. We’d better get it
off our hands, I think. What are you going to do with it now?”
“Take it up to the house again. But that reminds me, you’re still
under the law of ‘No Questions.’ Everything shall be cleared up to
your satisfaction in a very short time, if you’ll only wait.”
He wrapped the armlet carefully in his handkerchief and dropped it
into his pocket, taking care to touch it as little as he could. The
wrist-watch and paper-knife he put into his breast-pocket with less
precaution.
“Now for the next act!”
“Wait a moment,” pleaded Eileen. “Just one question. Why did Mr.
Dangerfield put out the real Talisman this morning?”
Westenhanger had his answer ready.
“What happened? The thief got a nasty jar. I expect that was what he
intended to do. He may have been on the look-out as well as
ourselves.”
They made their way up to the house. On the road they met Eric
Dangerfield walking slowly.
“Seen Mrs. Caistor Scorton?” asked Westenhanger, casually. “She was
just in front of us.”
“Yes,” answered Eric. “She’s gone up to the house.”
He walked on and they hurried forward towards Friocksheim.
“She’s gone to have another look at the cabinet, I expect,” said
Westenhanger. “Well, since she’s in the house, we may as well strike
while the iron’s hot. I’ll not keep you on tenterhooks much longer. As
a matter of fact, there’s no more mystery in the business.”