Thaxton Vail’s fierce disclaimer drowned out her murmured words of praise.
“Chief,” declared Vail, “my friend is saying all this to protect me. But I don’t need any protection. That is the Argyle watch. Though how it happened to be in my pocket is more than I can guess. That’s the stolen watch. I ought to know. I’ve seen it a thousand times ever since I was a child. And I never broke a repeater-watch at Mr. Creede’s house. I never owned a repeater. And I never borrowed any watch from him. Also, to the best of my belief, his father never had a watch made to order. He always carried the Argyle watch, and I never heard of his having any other.”
“Chief,” interposed Clive, very quietly, as Vail paused for breath, “I have just told you the true story—the story I shall stick to, if necessary, on the witness stand. Please remember that. If I say that watch is not the stolen one any jury in the world will take my word as to my knowledge of my own property. And any accusation against Mr. Vail will appear very ridiculous. It will not add to your reputation. For your own sake I advise you to accept my statement at its face value.”
“Drop that idiocy, Clive!” exhorted Vail angrily. “I tell you I don’t need any protection. And if I did I wouldn’t take it in the form of a lie. You mean well. And I’m grateful to you. But—”
“That’s my story, Chief,” calmly repeated Creede.
Quimby was looking from one to the other of the two men in worried uncertainty. Both were rich and influential members of the Aura community. Both were lifelong dwellers in the region. The word of either, presumably, would carry heavy weight in court. Yet each flatly contradicted the other. The chief’s brain began to buzz. Holding up the watch and facing the onlookers he asked:
“Can any of you identify this watch?”
No one spoke. Vail glanced from face to face. Every visage was either unwontedly pale or else unwontedly red. But nobody spoke. Clive Creede’s eyes followed Vail’s to the countenances of the spectators. In his sunken gaze was a world of appeal.
“Miss Gregg!” cried Thaxton at random. “You knew Clive’s father for years. You’ve seen the Argyle watch ever so often. I call on you to identify it.”
“My dear Thax,” cooed the old lady, placidly, “nothing on earth would give me greater joy than to identify it—except to identify the scoundrel who stole it.”