Chapter XMrs. 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 theKestrel’sarrival, 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 seeyour 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 foryourflorin. 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 gotfivepennies in my hand. You can take off the handkerchief, if you like.Fivepennies. Give me a bob if I’m wrong?”Eric Dangerfield had been watching closely.“All right,” he agreed.“Well, then. Iamwrong, and you owe me a bob. I didn’t bet I was right. I said, ‘Give me a bob if I’mwrong.’ ”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.”
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 theKestrel’sarrival, 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 seeyour 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 foryourflorin. 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 gotfivepennies in my hand. You can take off the handkerchief, if you like.Fivepennies. Give me a bob if I’m wrong?”
Eric Dangerfield had been watching closely.
“All right,” he agreed.
“Well, then. Iamwrong, and you owe me a bob. I didn’t bet I was right. I said, ‘Give me a bob if I’mwrong.’ ”
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.”