“Yes, and a strange tale it is. How do you suppose the jewels came to be on that table?”
“I cannot say,” Beatrice looked sad. “There seems to be only one explanation. That whoever had them or knew where they were, placed them there.”
“And how did the bearer of the box get into the locked room?”
“I can’t imagine. The only thing I can think of is that Natalie didn’t lock the door as thoroughly as she thinks she did.”
“Mrs. Faulkner, tell me this. I assure you I will not use your information unless absolutely necessary. Do you suspect the footman Blake of any connivance—or of any wrong doing in the whole matter?”
Beatrice Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, “No, Mr. Ford, I do not. I think Blake a thoroughly honest and trustworthy servant.”
“And who is the criminal?”
“That I cannot say. I am, as you know, merely a visitor, who chanced to be here at this unfortunate time. I have hesitated to express my opinions lest I do harm to the innocent or retard the quest of the guilty. I can only answer your questions in so far as they are not leading up to suspicion of any of my friends.”
“That is the right attitude, Mrs. Faulkner. I thought there was no necessity for troubling you at all, but one or two minor points I prefer to ask of you rather than Mrs. Stannard. Do you know the identity of ‘Goldenheart’?”
“I imagine her to be one of Mr. Stannard’s early inamoratas. He had many, and, moreover, I should not be surprised to learn that he called more than one by that name. You know there was a small gift found in his desk addressed to some one of that name, which had never been sent. It has occurred to me that the Goldenheart of that matter, and the one to whom he wrote more recently, were not the same person.”