“Stolen!” Gregory echoed.
“This is very interesting,” Henry declared. “They came into our possession in a somewhat unusual fashion. You think that in the first instance they were probably stolen?”
Mr. Johnson withdrew his eyes from them at last.
“I should say they surely were,” he agreed. “I saw a photograph of them in an American magazine about twelve months ago, with a gigantic Buddha between them. They were quoted as having been stolen and being for some reason or other, which I have forgotten, immensely valuable. Columns of it there were, I remember. The young American who started out to get them was discovered with his throat cut in the train from Pekin southwards. Nobody seemed to know what had become of the Images.”
There was a brief silence; a sudden, almost unaccountable lessening of the tension of the last few minutes. Mr. Johnson loomed no longer as a sinister figure of fate.
“The circumstances under which we came into possession of these Images,” Henry intervened, “would seem to preclude the idea of their being the ones referred to in your magazine article. Still, the story is interesting.”
Mr. Johnson turned away without further comment. The subject of the Images was exhausted. The screen in the chapel beyond was inspected. Presently he took a formal leave of his hosts.
“We shall hope to see more of you, Mr. Johnson,” Sir Bertram said, as he accompanied him on to the terrace. “We do not entertain much at present, but my son will be giving some farewell shooting parties before his departure abroad. We shall hope to number you amongst our guests.”
“Very kind of you, I am sure,” Mr. Johnson replied, climbing into his car and thrusting in his clutch. “My visit and brief glimpse of your treasures has been most enjoyable. Good day, Sir Bertram. Good day, gentlemen.”
He drove off. They stood watching him pass through the iron gates into the park. Sir Bertram waved his hand light-heartedly, but neither of the other two indulged in any farewell salute.