Horrified at his own feelings, Randal March continued.

“We thought you might be able to help us. You know Melling House well, don’t you?”

Her deep voice said, “Yes.”

“Can you describe the study mantelpiece?”

She showed a faint surprise. She said,

“Of course. It’s one of those heavy black marble affairs.”

“Any ornaments?”

“A clock, and four gilt figures-”

“Four gilt figures?”

“Yes-The Seasons.”

“Miss Cray, can you tell us whether they were there on Wednesday night?”

The question took her back. She saw the study in a bright small picture-James with the light shining down upon him, his eyes watchful, teasing her-the littered ash of the letters she had written to him-his mother looking down on them, a handsome young matron in white satin with her ostrich-feather fan-the graceful golden figures posed on the black marble slab. She said,

“Yes, they were there.”

“You are quite sure they were there when you left at a quarter past nine?”

“Quite sure.”

There was a pause. He had to make headway against his crowding thoughts. How ghastly pale she was. She looked at him as if she had never seen him before. How else should she look? He was neither friend nor lover. He wasn’t even a man, he was a police officer. That horrible moment was the first in which he consciously used the word love in his thoughts of Rietta Cray. He said,

“Can you tell us anything about these figures?”

She seemed to come back from a long way off. Something, some shadow, darkened her eyes. He thought she was remembering, and felt a sharp inexplicable pang. She said,

“Yes-they’re Florentine-sixteenth century, I think.”

“Then they are valuable.”

“Very.” Then, after a slight pause, “Why do you ask?”

“Because they have disappeared.”

Rietta said, “Oh!” A little colour came into her face.

“Mr. Holderness is taking an inventory, and they are missing. Anything you can tell us will be a help in tracing them.”

Her manner changed. It became controlled. She said in a hesitating voice,

“I suppose you know that they are gold?”

“Gold!” Drake looked up sharply, repeating the last word.

March said, “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, quite sure. Mrs. Lessiter told me. They were left to her by an uncle who was a collector. They are museum pieces, very valuable indeed.”

“And she had them out on the mantelpiece like that?”

“Oh, yes. She said nobody would know.”

The Superintendent came in rather sharply,

“They’re not even mentioned in the insurance.”

Rietta turned her Pallas Athene look upon him.

“Mrs. Lessiter didn’t believe in insurances. She said you paid away a lot of money and got nothing for it, and if you had anything valuable it was just drawing attention to it. She kept on her husband’s insurance on the house and furniture, but she didn’t bother about any of her own things. She had some valuable miniatures and other things. She said if you just left them lying about, everyone got used to them, but the more fuss you made, and the more you locked things up, the more likely they were to be stolen.”

March was frowning.

“Would the Mayhews know about these figures, that they were gold?”

“I should think so. They are old servants.”

“Was the son brought up here?”

“Yes-he went to Lenton Grammar School. He was rather a clever boy.”

“Would he have known about the figures?”

“How can I tell?” Her look changed to one of distress. It went from one man to the other. “Why do you ask that?”

Randal March said,

“Cyril Mayhew was down here on Wednesday night, and the figures are gone.”

It was just before half past three that Mrs. Crook ushered the Chief Constable into Mrs. Voycey’s drawing-room. Miss Silver rose to meet him with a good deal of pleasure. She could not even now look at the tall, personable man without recalling the frail, determined little boy who, after resisting all previous efforts at discipline, had by her own peculiar mixture of tact and firmness been guided into the paths of health and knowledge. She had never permitted herself to have favourites. It was perhaps on this account that, whilst referring to his sisters as “dear Isabel” and “dear Margaret,” she had never been known to accord their brother any such prefix. Not even to herself would she admit that the conflict between them, and its happy termination, had given him a particular place in her affections.

“My dear Randal-how extremely kind!”

He had his customary smile for her, but it was a fleeting one. The ritual of their meeting proceeded.

“Your dear mother is well? I had a letter from her only last week. She is a most faithful correspondent. I think you will find this a comfortable chair.”

The smile showed again for a moment.

“If you have heard from my mother you have had all our news. Margaret is well, Isabel is well, Margaret’s last long-legged brat is shooting up. And now let us put the family on the shelf. I want to talk to you. Have you-perhaps I oughtn’t to ask it, but I do-have you had any communication from Rietta Cray?”

Miss Silver’s hands paused on the thin strip of knitting which represented, embryonically, the back of little Josephine’s woolly jacket. She gave her faint dry cough and said,

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I very much want to know. She rang me up and asked me about you. I hoped you would have heard from her.”

The busy needles moved again. She said,

“I have.”

“You have seen her?”

“Yes, Randal.”

“What do you make of it all?”

She lifted her eyes and looked at him steadily.

“What do you make of it yourself?”

He got up out of his chair and stood half turned away from her, looking down into the fire.

“She is quite incapable-” He had neither voice nor words to complete the sentence.

Miss Silver said, “Quite so. But there might be a strong case against her. She is aware of that herself.”

He said, “Damnable-” and again had no more words.

Miss Silver failed to reprove him for the one which he had used. She continued to knit. After a little while she said,

“There is something which I think you ought to know- in your private capacity.”

He pushed a log with his foot.

“I haven’t got a private capacity. I’m a policeman.”

She coughed.

“You are Chief Constable. You would not, I imagine, find it necessary to impart everything you knew to a subordinate.”

He had a wry smile for that.

“Jesuitry!” Then, before she could summon up the look with which she had been used to quell him in the schoolroom, he went on in a voice quite broken away from its habitual control. “I’d better make a clean breast of it. You always do know everything whether one tells you or not, so it’s just as well to make a virtue of necessity. Rietta is completely incapable of harming anyone, but she is also completely incapable of defending herself at the expense of someone she loves.”

Miss Silver answered this very directly. She did, in fact, justify his assertion that she always knew everything by answering what he had merely implied.

“You are afraid that Mr. Carr Robertson is the guilty person, and that Miss Cray will screen him at the risk of incurring suspicion.”

He drove hard at the fire with his foot. A torrent of sparks rushed up. He said,

“Yes.”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

“I think I can relieve your mind. I was, in fact, about to do so. I have had no opportunity of questioning Mr. Carr, but one thing you may rely upon-Miss Cray has a very strong reason for being sure that he is innocent.”

“What reason?”

“A most convincing one. In fact, one may say, the only one which could carry complete conviction. He thinks she did it.”