There was the sound of hoofs in the lane. Madame looked out of the window and a wonderful light swept over her face. Sir Bertram was dismounting from the hack which he had ridden across the park. He handed the reins to the roadmender who came hobbling up, threw away his cigarette, and, with the familiarity of habitude, turned the handle of the door and immediately afterwards entered the drawing-room. He nodded to Mr. Johnson as he came over to Madame with outstretched hands.
“Dear Angèle,” he said, “you see I anticipated the time of my usual call. I thought perhaps that this news might have upset you.”
“You have heard then?” she exclaimed.
“A lurid account of the affair was served up with my morning tea,” Sir Bertram replied. “My commiserations, Mr. Johnson. I am relieved to find you in such good shape, however. The least sensational story is that you were battered almost to death by several brawny-looking ruffians and had already been moved to Norwich Infirmary.”
“The report,” Mr. Johnson declared, “is exaggerated.”
“Anything of value gone?” the newcomer enquired.
“Miss Endacott is the only one who can tell us that,” was the quiet answer. “The box containing her uncle’s manuscripts was broken open and the manuscripts themselves have disappeared.”
Sir Bertram drew up a chair and lit one of the cigarettes from the box which Madame pushed towards him. His long, lean figure looked at its best in the well-cut riding clothes he was wearing. The summer had brought an extra tinge of brown sunburn into his cheeks. His eyes were bright and clear. He seemed in the best of spirits and health.
“That lends quite a note of romance to the affair,” he remarked. “I wonder what our local Sherlock Holmes will make of it.”
“He has pronounced the affair mysterious,” Mr. Johnson confided. “I find it so myself,” he continued, a moment later. “One would not have imagined that there were many people with a craze for Chinese manuscripts.”