"Oh, ah, yes," said Heyton. "Well, I'll go upstairs again. Send for me, if you want me, Inspector."
He went upstairs, paused a moment outside the Marquess's door, then went on to his own dressing-room. He listened at the door leading to the bedroom; but there was no sound. He touched the handle of the door; but he could not open it, though he knew that Miriam was in the room, and that he ought to go to her. He could not. He rang the bell, and when the valet came, Heyton told him to bring some whisky and soda. But even the draught of almost undiluted spirit could not give him sufficient courage to face his wife.
For he knew that she would remember that she had told him the diamonds were in the safe. And that he had wanted them.
CHAPTER XXVII
Mr. Jacobs, the detective from Scotland Yard, arrived at the Hall a little after four. He was a short, comfortable-looking person, with a round, almost boyish face, a pleasant smile and a pair of blue eyes, with a frank and innocent expression; in fact, anything more unlike the conventional detective beloved by the fictionist it would be difficult to imagine. The Inspector had met him at the station, and had gone over the case with meticulous care; and Mr. Jacobs, smoking placidly, had listened—well, as you and I, dear reader, would listen to a tale which had no very great interest for us. If the truth must be told, the worthy Inspector was rather disappointed; he had expected the great man to display a hawk-like acuteness and to ask a number of incisive questions; but Mr. Jacobs asked none; he said merely, when the recital was finished,
"You have done everything you could, Mr. Smith. Not a very difficult case, eh?"
"Not difficult!" repeated the Inspector, with surprise. "Have you got a clue already?"
Mr. Jacobs smiled. "Can't say yet," he replied.
As they drove up to the Hall, Heyton was seen standing just within the threshold, as if waiting for them.