"Nice, bright sleuth, you," commented he, mockingly; "can't you see through a grindstone when there's a hole in it? Now looky here, Swift: old Page kept the replica in the box as a blind; this cryptogram tells where the real ruby is."
I shrugged my shoulders; the idea was by no means novel. But it did not make matters any clearer.
"It must have been the ruby which he showed Maillot," I insisted. "That young man may not be much of a gem expert, but I don't think any mere paste imitation of a ruby would have inspired him to such a flight of vivid description as he indulged in when he talked with me yesterday morning. Guess again."
He jammed his glasses down combatively astride his hawk-like nose, and squared his shoulders.
"I won't guess at all. Looky here: old Page switched 'em. That's what he did—switched 'em to show Maillot the real thing. Every time I converse with you, Swift, my theory about the equality of mind and matter receives a jolt: you have more brawn than brain, old sport."
Squinting at each newcomer, he bustled away before I had time to get back at him. I was rather touchy about my size; I could n't help being a giant, and the little ferret of a sawbones knew it. I had only one means of revenge. He was a great stickler for maintaining the dignity of his profession, and I always called him "Doc."
While De Breen was getting his jurors in line, I disposed the two patrolmen who had accompanied him—one in the hall, to direct those who had business here this morning straight to the library, and to allow nobody, under whatever pretext, to wander to any other part of the house; the second was stationed just inside the library door. Stodger was to remain up-stairs until called for, when I would relieve him during the brief period required for his testimony.
Burke and Maillot arrived while I was thus engaged, and before I had time to enter the library the front door opened to admit a party of three—Miss Cooper and Miss Fluette, who were accompanied by a handsome, dignified man with white hair and a closely trimmed beard which he wore parted in the middle and brushed straight back.
Instinctively I knew this man to be Alfred Fluette. And as soon would I have expected the attendance of the Caliph of Bagdad. I fell to watching him narrowly.
His features were not familiar to me, but certain details of his appearance were so striking that I could scarcely do otherwise than conclude that his bearing and countenance had quite recently undergone a marked change. He was a man, I imagined, who could hide his feelings with eminent success; yet, his upstanding figure, without being precisely bent, expressed an idea of drooping. The lines of his face gave it a haggard expression, while his eyes wore a furtive, hunted look at certain periods when he forgot to keep himself in hand. All these details taken together gave me food for sober reflection.