“It does,” agreed Barry, “and that’s where it belongs, if on either of you two.”
“It must be so,” said Beatrice Faulkner, “for if Natalie had known where the emeralds were, and if that letter was written to her, and gave her the gems,—for it really did give them to the one it was written to,—then she would have kept them and not have given them back to Joyce.”
“By Jove, that’s so!” exclaimed Roberts. “Whatever woman that letter was meant for, is the real owner of the jewels this minute, according to Eric Stannard’s wish, and if she had them she would be extremely unlikely to give them up unnecessarily. But how, then, explain their return?”
“It wasn’t a return,” said Beatrice. “Joyce had them herself all the time.”
“I believe she had,” said Roberts.
IX
One or the Other
Bobsy Roberts was at his wits’ end. He pondered long and deeply but he could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. There was no trail to follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider.
He sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery.
“Walls have ears,” he said to himself, whimsically, “now if they only had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what I want to know.”
The studio furnishings included several small tables and escritoires which had drawers and pigeon-holes stuffed with old letters and papers. Like most artists Eric Stannard was of careless habits regarding his belongings. Roberts patiently and laboriously went over these papers, and found little of interest. Old bills, old notes of appointment with patrons, old social invitations and such matters made up the bulk of the findings.