“Who is going to prosecute?”
“One of the shops—some silversmith’s. It seems there was a big silver thing that hadn’t even been paid for—one of the men had it up to look at it and order the inscription. And the young thief took it out of his room. That’s what put them on the track. Someone saw him, or suspected him, or something. Anyhow, the police came with a search warrant. They’d taken him away by the time I got here, and I tell you, Lucian, I’m glad of it. I couldn’t answer for myself.”
“Then you haven’t been to him yet?”
“Not I. That’s his poor mother’s job. You know what women are. She’ll go to him fast enough, and believe all the lies he may choose to tell her, just as she always has done.”
“How much does she know?”
“Nothing, practically. I telegraphed to her ‘Come at once to Cecil, very urgent.’ She’ll know the rest soon enough.”
The doctor inwardly cursed the cruelty of the unimaginative. He dared not think of the interpretations that Rose would have had time to put upon that summons during her journey.
“I could meet her at the station and tell her.”
“We don’t know what train she’s coming by,” said Sir Thomas helplessly.
“She’ll come by whatever train left London soonest after your telegram reached her,” said the doctor grimly.