“Heirlooms, just the same as the others. They are not to be touched.”
The brothers stood side by side upon the lawn, their faces turned towards the house. Sir Bertram was his usual cool and gracious self. Henry had somehow or other a suggestion of suspended life in his colourless face, his stiff attitude, his cold eyes.
“Major Holmes is examining the servants?” he enquired.
“That was his idea.”
“Will he wait until Gregory returns?”
“Very likely. As I think I told you, they seem to have come across some one who can swear that they saw a man leaving the Hall last night, just before the burglary took place.”
“But there was no actual burglary,” Henry objected.
“A quantity of documents appear to be missing,” Sir Bertram confided. “Holmes’s attitude seemed to me a little suspicious. I fancy that some one has been getting at him. I am not sure—I must confess to having some doubts about this man Johnson.”
“Doubts? Explain yourself, Bertram.”
“Johnson’s account of himself has never been an entirely credible one. Do you remember the day when he lunched here and he saw the Images?”