“You went out at the front door?”
“Yes; Blake, the footman, let me out. I didn’t look for my hostess as I left, for we are on intimate neighbourly terms, and often ignore the formalities.”
There was nothing more to be learned from this witness, and the next was Mr. Eugene Courtenay.
But one swift, intense glance passed between Courtenay and Joyce as the witness took the stand. It was seen by no one but the keen-eyed Bobsy, and to him it was a revelation.
“Oh, ho,” was his self-communing, “sits the wind in that quarter? Now, if his nibs and the stately chatelaine are—er—en rapport—it puts a distinctly different tint on the racing steed! I must see about this.”
Eugene Courtenay was a man of the world, about thirty years old, and a near neighbour. He had been a suitor of Joyce’s before she succumbed to Stannard’s Cave Man wooing, and since, had been a friend of both.
Easily and leisurely Courtenay gave his testimony, which was to the effect that after the dinner guests had scattered into the various rooms, he had been in the Billiard Room until he went home. Several others had been there, but had drifted away, and he was for a time alone there with his hostess. Then he had taken leave, going out from the Billiard Room, which had an outside door. He had not gone directly home, but had sauntered across a lawn, and had sat for a short time on a garden seat, smoking. He had chanced to sit facing the studio South window, and had noticed the light go out in that room. He thought nothing of it, nor when, a few moments later the room was relit, did he think it strange in any way. Why shouldn’t people light and relight their rooms as they chose? He then went home, knowing nothing of the tragedy and heard nothing of it till morning. No further questioning brought out anything of importance and Courtenay was dismissed.
Mr. and Mrs. Truxton gave no new information. They told of the dinner party, and of the hours afterward. Mr. Truxton mentioned the jewels exhibited by Eric Stannard, and dilated slightly upon them with the enthusiasm of a gem lover, but neither he nor his wife could shed any light on the mystery.
“Where are these jewels?” asked Lamson, suddenly, scenting a possible robbery.
“I don’t know,” Joyce answered, listlessly. “Mr. Stannard kept some of them in Safety Deposit and some in the house. He had a place of concealment for them, but I preferred not to know where it is. When I wished to wear any of the jewels he got them for me, and afterward put them away again.”