The Ivory Snuff Box

by Frederic Arnold Kummer

Duvall looked at him sharply. The man bowed, smiling in a stupid way, then began to withdraw, explaining that he was cleaning the hall, and hoping that he had not disturbed "monsieur." The detective closed the door, uncertain whether the man had been watching him or not. He remembered Dufrenne's warning, and realized that in going out, alone, this night, he ran some chances of having the snuff box taken from him. Of course, it was unlikely that Dr. Hartmann had any suspicions of him—yet it seemed advisable to put the box in as safe a place as possible, at least until he was once more across the French frontier. Yet where could he put it? To secrete the thing in his room was out of the question. The place might be searched, for all he knew, within half an hour of his leaving it. To conceal it successfully about his person seemed equally impossible. Where, indeed, could he hope to hide an object of this size, so as to defy a search, in case one should be made? His eyes suddenly fell upon the opera hat which he had taken from his portmanteau. He took it up and gazed at it with a smile, then quickly whipped out his knife and began, with great care, to detach the inner lining of the crown for a distance of perhaps three or four inches. Carefully drawing back the lining, he slipped the thin ivory box beneath it, and pushed it back into place. The lining was of heavy black silk, stiffened by the label of the maker which was glued to it. The space between it and the crown was considerable. When Duvall had once more fastened the silk in place with the aid of a needle and thread which he drew from his dressing case, it would have required a very careful inspection, indeed, to have discovered that there was anything unusual about the hat. Even the added weight of the box was not perceptible—its lightness prevented that. When he had completed his task, the detective suddenly threw open the door and glanced into the hall. It was vacant. Evidently he had not been observed.

There were but four guests at the Minister's that night, of whom Duvall and Grace were two. The other two were a Mr. and Mrs. Haddon, friends of Mrs. Phelps, who were making a short stay in the Belgian capital on their way to their home in London.

The little party, with the exception of Duvall, had already assembled in the drawing-room, awaiting his arrival. Grace found the Haddons charming and cultivated people who had traveled all over the world, owing to Mr. Haddon's connection with the English Consular service. Mr. Phelps had told Grace that they were expecting an American, a friend of his, whose name was Brooks, but she did not exhibit much interest in the matter. She was becoming more and more worried about Richard, and wondered if he could, by any possibility, have left Brussels without communicating with her. The thought seemed unbelievable.

Dinner was set for eight. As the hour was striking, the butler announced Mr. Brooks. Grace glanced up carelessly as the latter entered, then her face went white, and she started forward with a glad cry. Mr. Phelps, who was mumbling an introduction, did not, luckily, observe her agitation. Duvall looked at her coolly. "Good-evening, Miss Ellicott," he said, bowing. "I am delighted to meet you."

The shock of the thing almost unnerved her. "Mr. Brooks," she managed to gasp, her face crimson. In a moment she became calmer, as she observed her husband's warning look, and began to chat with him nervously, as though he were the chance acquaintance he pretended to be. In a moment they all were seated about the dinner-table. He had been able to say to her as they left the drawing-room, however, unheard by the others, "I will ask permission to escort you home." She nodded, with a twinkle in her eyes. All her nervousness and anxiety had left her now, and in their place came a delicious feeling of happiness at Richard's presence, and a keen sense of adventure that made the blood tingle through her whole body. "Mr. Brooks!" She laughed inwardly at the thought that no one at the table but themselves knew that they were husband and wife. She proceeded to enter into the spirit of the occasion with huge delight, questioning Mr. Brooks about his business in Brussels with a keen sense of mischief.

It was along toward the middle of dinner that one of the servants came in and handed Mr. Phelps a card. Duvall, engaged for the moment in conversation with Mrs. Haddon, did not perceive it, but Grace, who sat next to their host, experienced a sudden feeling of alarm. She observed the Minister's puzzled face, as he excused himself and left the table, and for an instant she thought of warning Richard. A moment's thought, however, convinced her of the uselessness of the attempt, nor did she indeed know what she could say to him. She remembered Dr. Hartmann's remark, that he might look in at the Minister's after dinner, to which she had attached no importance at the time. Now the thought came to her that the doctor was in the reception-room without, and that his coming, at this time, in the middle of dinner, meant that some disaster was impending.

In a few moments Mr. Phelps reëntered the room, followed by Dr. Hartmann. The latter was in evening clothes, and his face seemed peculiarly forbidding and grim.

"Dr. Hartmann has consented to join us," he said to his wife. "Philippe"—he turned to the butler—"lay another place." Then he proceeded to introduce Hartmann to Mr. and Mrs. Haddon and to Duvall.

The latter looked at the doctor calmly. "I think we have met before, Doctor," he said, in an even voice.

"Quite so." Hartmann's face showed not a trace of emotion of any sort. "I hope your servant is better."