"'Then where is my diamond?' said Sir Rube feebly, and Colonel Maddox smiled behind his hand.
"'Where indeed?' he murmured pointedly.
"'What do you mean?' demanded the other.
"'As to where your diamond is, I'm afraid I can't help you,' said the soldier, 'except to remark that it certainly is not in this room.'
"'But it was,' spluttered the other. 'You all saw me take it out of the cabinet.'
"'We saw nothing of the sort,' answered the soldier. 'We saw you take something out of the cabinet which you told us was the diamond, and which we believed to be the diamond.' A murmur of assent came from the others. 'This—er—person,' continued Colonel Maddox, indicating the Professor, had evidently conceived the friendly idea of substituting a paste stone for the genuine one. Unfortunately—or, perhaps, in view of that chance shot of my wife's, fortunately for him—he only substituted one piece of paste for another.'
"'Do you mean to say I shouldn't have noticed that it was paste when I took it out?' cried Sir Rube.
"'Hold hard again,' said Lord Shotover. 'You didn't take it in your hand. You gave it to my wife on that velvet thing.'
"And once more there came a murmur of assent. 'I expect that man you were talking about stole it before we came in,' said one of the girls, and Sir Rube—all the bluster out of him—could only stare at her dazedly.
"'That is a possible solution,' agreed the soldier. 'And if so, I fear he's away by this time. But you must go back further. When was the last time you actually handled the diamond yourself, Jenkins?'
"'About three months ago.'
"The Colonel shrugged his shoulders. 'Then at any time during those three months the substitution may have taken place,' he remarked. I'm very sorry for you, my dear fellow, especially as I know you thought this place was burglar-proof. But in my humble opinion there's nothing that has yet been constructed by man that can't be opened by him. Don't you agree, Shotover?'
"'Most certainly,' said the other. 'Couldn't have put it clearer myself."
"And at that it was left. No trace of Mark Sanderson was ever discovered. In fact, he has never been heard of again. And, after much discussion, in which the soldier played a prominent part, it was decided that the Professor had been sufficiently punished by the disgrace he had incurred, and his share in the proceedings was glossed over."
The little man paused, and called the barman. "What's yours?" he said.
"But, dash it, man," I cried, "you can't leave it like that. What had really happened?"
"Well," he remarked, "the popular theory was the one put forward by the girl—that Mark Sanderson stole it while the party was at dinner, and then sent the note to make his revenge the more complete."
"And your theory?" I demanded.
"Is, of course, purely academic," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "You appreciate, naturally, the main difficulty that confronted the thief. To substitute a paste diamond for the genuine article was child's play, but to hide the real one was a very different matter. A police search is no joke. A thing the size of the Magor diamond would most certainly have been discovered. It was, therefore, imperative to prevent a search, and they hit on a very clever ruse to achieve their object.
"There were two paste stones. When the real diamond came to the Professor, he passed it on to Mrs. Maddox, and made a diversion over an imaginary moth. He had one already in the killing-bottle, and he slipped one of the paste stones in as well. Taking advantage of the excitement, Mrs. Maddox substituted the other paste stone for the genuine diamond, which finally came to Aaronhaus and was at once discovered, she having the real one in her bag.
"Now came the moment. She had already quarrelled with the Professor: what more natural than her acid remark about the killing-bottle? To the others it was an arrow at a venture, which, by a wild fluke, hit the mark; but the whole thing was, of course, carefully premeditated. And immediately a red herring was drawn over the trail.
"Then came in the Colonel, who proceeded to dominate the situation. He suggested a plausible theory to which everyone assented, and Sir Rube was so dumbfounded over the whole business that he agreed as well. The danger of a search was over.
"Now they were in clover. The only man who could possibly be arrested was the Professor, but there was nothing incriminating on him. True, he had evidently gone to Mexbridge Towers with the intention of stealing the diamond, but he hadn't succeeded. The utmost that could happen to him was a short term of imprisonment, and punishing him didn't help Sir Rube to get his diamond back, which was all he cared about.
"Finally, Mark Sanderson. Well, it is a strange coincidence, but on landing at Southampton he was met by a man who bore a slight resemblance to Colonel Maddox. And, but for the fact that three days later he was knifed and killed in a drunken brawl down in the East End, he might have figured more than he did in my story. But, since there were no papers on him, and nothing by which he could be identified, it occurred to the Colonel that he might profitably be kept alive to write threatening letters to Sir Rube. Another red herring, and a useful one: as I said, most people thought he was the thief."
"It's lucky for the thieves," I said, "that Sir Rube didn't handle the diamond when he gave it to Lady Shotover."
He drained his glass and stood up. "Yes," he agreed, "but it would have made no difference. The weights of the real and the paste stones were identical, and it was extremely improbable that he would examine it when he took it out. Anyway, that was a risk they had to run." He lit a cigarette. "Well, I must be getting along. A charming woman is getting up charades in aid of the local cats' home, and I'm performing."
"Really?" I said. "What part are you taking?"
A faint smile flickered round his lips, as he opened the door.
"That of a retired English colonel," he murmured.
IV. — THE BROKEN RECORD
ON an average Tim Anstruther and I meet about once every five years, and when we do my wife gets a telephone call to say that I am detained in London for the night on business.
Twenty-four hours is the minimum time for recovery. And so when I butted into him in Regent Street the other day, I went without further ado into a telephone booth and did the necessary. Then we adjourned for a small one.
An extraordinary chap—Tim. Providence in the shape of a father who had made something in jam, had endowed him with ample money, so that a rooted disinclination for any settled occupation was no drawback to him.
He had been able without inconvenience to lead the only life he wanted to—that of a wanderer in strange corners of the globe.
There seemed literally to be no spot he did not know, and if one could get him in a communicative mood he was the very best value for money I've ever met. The trouble was that getting him into such a mood was what necessitated twenty-four hours' recovery for people like myself.
But let it not be thought that this is going to be a record of inordinate consumption of alcohol: I have only put in this short introduction to emphasise the fact that on this occasion the mood occurred within half an hour of our meeting. And the reason of it was so amazing that even now I can hardly believe what he said. There must be a mistake: and yet...
We decided to lunch at the Royal Motor Club, that vast caravanserai which numbers its members by the ten thousands. And we were standing by the bar preparatory to feeding when a man I knew slightly, by the name of Finlay, came up and spoke to me.
I was surprised at seeing him there because he is a strict teetotaller, in addition to being perilously near, one of the unco guid. He specialises in charitable works, and you can always safely bet that he will try and touch you for his latest pet scheme. To cap it he is a churchwarden