The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren

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      "What's up?" he asked.

      "Isobel wants to speak to us three. She's been looking for you two. A thought has struck her. Blow severe but not fatal. All about the Painful Event . . . ."

      "Where is she?" asked Michael.

      "I said I'd lead you by the ear to the smoking-room at an early date--unless either of you had done a bunk with the loot," replied Digby.

      "Well--I haven't fled yet, but I shall want a Bradshaw after lunch," said Michael, adding, "Let's go and hear Isobel's great thought. Generally worth hearing."

      We went downstairs and made our way to the smoking-room. The brass box caught my eye, and an idea also struck me with some violence, as I noticed that the lid and front seemed brighter than the rest of it.

      "Don't expose me yet, John," said Michael as we crossed the hall.

      "John been catching you out?" asked Digby.

      "Caught me last night, didn't you, John?" replied Michael.

      "Red-handed," said I.

      "It's blue-handed that Aunt wants to cop someone," said Digby, opening the door of the smoking-room. "Sapphire-blue."

      Isobel was sitting by the fire looking tearful and depressed. It was at me that she looked as we entered.

      "Caught them both in the act of bolting, Isobel," said Digby. "They've each got a half of the 'Blue Water'--about a pint apiece. But they are willing to hear your words if you are quick."

      "Oh, I am so miserable," moaned Isobel. "I have been such a wicked, wicked beast. But I can't bear it any longer."

      "Leave it with us, dear," said Digby, "and forget it. We'll smuggle it back, and share Aunt's few well-chosen words among us, won't we, Beau?"

      "What's the trouble, child?" asked Michael.

      "I've let Augustus take the blame all this time," she sobbed.

      "Didn't notice him taking any," observed Digby. "Must be a secret blame-taker, I suppose."

      "Augustus is perfectly innocent and I could have proved it, the moment Aunt began to question us last night. A word from me would have saved him from all suspicion--and I never said it," she went on.

      "Why, dear?" I asked her.

      "Oh, I don't know. . . . Yes, I do. It would have looked like exculpating myself too," she replied. "Besides, I didn't know who had done it. And it was more or less of a silly practical joke last night. . . . And, of course, I thought the person who had taken it would say so, or at least put it back. But now--it's awful. And I can't keep quiet any longer. I thought I'd tell you three before I told Aunt."

      "Well--what is it, Faithful Hound?" asked Michael.

      "Why, when the light went out--you know I said, 'Ghosts and goblins and skeleton hands,' or something? Well, I half frightened myself and half pretended, and I clutched somebody's arm. When the light went up I found it was Augustus I was hugging--and let go so quickly that nobody noticed, I suppose."

      "That settles it," said Digby. "It wasn't poor Gussie." "Couldn't have been," he added, "unless those two were one and did it together."

      "Don't be an ass, Dig," I said, for poor Isobel was really upset about it.

      "Oh, never!" said Digby. "Absolutely never!"

      "Well--I like our Augustus all the better for not having adduced this bit of evidence himself," said I.

      "Bless the dear boy," said Digby, "and I searched all his little pockets. I must find him and forgive him."

      "Have you told Claudia this?" asked Michael.

      "Yes," replied Isobel. "But she seems to think that I may have been mistaken."

      "Which is absurd, of course," she added.

      "Well--friend Gussie ought to be much obliged to you, both for hanging on to him in the dark, and for remembering it, Isobel," said Michael.

      "Yes," chimed in Digby, "now he can bark and wag his tail and gambol around the feet of Aunt Patricia, while we walk in outer darkness."

      "Tell her at once and get it off your conscientious chest, Isobel," said I.

      She looked at me long and miserably, almost apologetically I thought, and went out of the room.

      "Say, citizens," said Digby as the door closed, "what I want to know is this. Who pinched this here gem we're being bothered about? Officious and offensive fella, I consider--but Gussie now being out of it, it must be one of us three. . . . Excuse my mentioning it then, but me being out of it, it must be one of you two. Now unless you really want the damned thing, I say, 'Put it back.'"

      Michael and I once again looked at each other, Michael's face being perfectly expressionless.

      "I think of bolting with it, as I told Isobel just now," said Michael.

      "John going with his half too?" asked Digby.

      "No," replied Michael for me. "I'm taking it all."

      "Well, old horse," said Digby, looking at his watch, "could you go soon after lunch? I want to run up to town to see a man about a dog, and Aunt seems to have other views for us--until the matter is cleared up."

      "Do my best to oblige," said Michael, as I quietly slipped from the room to carry out the idea which had occurred to me as I crossed the hall.

      I went to the brass box. Finger-prints were very faintly discernible on its highly-polished lid and front. Going to the wash-basin in the room opening off the neighbouring corridor, I damped my handkerchief, and rubbed soap, hard, on the wet surface. The hall was still empty when I returned, and I promptly began scouring the lid and front of the box.

      It was easier, however, to remove the finger-marks than to remove the signs of their removal. I did not wish it to be obvious that someone had been doing--what I was doing.

      Under a heavy curtain, in a recess in the panelling, hung overcoats, caps, mufflers, and such outdoor garments. A silk scarf of Digby's struck me as being just the thing I wanted.

      I had restored to the box the brilliance which had been its before I soaped it, and was giving it a final wipe with the silk, when the door from the corridor swung open, Michael entered, and I was caught in the act.

      And then I saw that in his hand was a piece of wash-leather and a silver-duster, presumably purloined from the butler's pantry!

      "Ah!" he said. "Removing all traces of the crime?"

      "All--I hope, Beau," I replied.

      "Sound plan too," he observed. "Just going to do it myself," and he passed on.

      Having finished my task, I placed the fingers of my right hand on top of the box, my thumb on the front, and left as fair and clear a set of finger-prints as I could contrive.

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