“Not a soul,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” said Lord Peter, “I thought perhaps the—the person with whom I found them might have taken them for a joke.”
The lawyer looked puzzled.
“Did the person claim to be an acquaintance of mine?” he inquired. “I know practically nobody in London, except the friend with whom I was staying in Balham, Dr. Philpots, and I should be very greatly surprised at his practising a jest upon me. He knew very well how distressed I was at the loss of the glasses. My business was to attend a meeting of shareholders in Medlicott’s Bank, but the other gentlemen present were all personally unknown to me, and I cannot think that any of them would take so great a liberty. In any case,” he added, “as the glasses are here, I will not inquire too closely into the manner of their restoration. I am deeply obliged to you for your trouble.”
Lord Peter hesitated.
“Pray forgive my seeming inquisitiveness,” he said, “but I must ask you another question. It sounds rather melodramatic, I’m afraid, but it’s this. Are you aware that you have any enemy—anyone, I mean, who would profit by your—er—decease or disgrace?”
Mr. Crimplesham sat frozen into stony surprise and disapproval.
“May I ask the meaning of this extraordinary question?” he inquired stiffly.
“Well,” said Lord Peter, “the circumstances are a little unusual. You may recollect that my advertisement was addressed to the jeweller who sold the chain.”
“That surprised me at the time,” said Mr. Crimplesham, “but I begin to think your advertisement and your behaviour are all of a piece.”