"Anything for a little excitement," said Barnes casually.
He listened at the door until he heard the waiter clattering down the stairway, and then went swiftly down the hall to No. 30. Mr. Prosser was sleeping just as soundly and as resoundingly as at midnight!
"By gad!" he muttered, half aloud. Everything was as clear as day to him now. Bolting into his own room, he closed the door and stood stock-still for many minutes, trying to picture the scene in the cottage.
No stretch of the imagination was required to establish the facts. Sprouse had come to him during the night with Prince Ugo's blood on the hands that bore the treasure. He had surprised and overpowered the pseudo Mr. Hasselwein, and had actually tortured him into revealing the hiding place of the jewels. The significance of the scattered stove pipe was not lost on Barnes; it had not been knocked down in a struggle between the two men. Prince Ugo was not, and never had been, in a position to defend himself against his wily assailant. Barnes's blood ran cold as he went over in his mind the pitiless method employed by Sprouse in subduing his royal victim. And the coolness, the unspeakable bravado of the man in coming direct to him with the booty! His amazingly clever subterfuge in allowing Barnes to think that room No. 30 was the scene of his operations, thereby forcing him to remain inactive through fear of consequences to himself and the Countess if he undertook to investigate!
He found a letter in his box when he went downstairs, after stuffing the tin box deep into his pack,—a risky thing to do he realised, but no longer perilous in the light of developments. It was no longer probable that his effects would be subjected to inspection by the police. He walked over to a window to read the letter. Before he slit the envelope he knew that Sprouse was the writer. The message was brief.
"After due consideration, I feel that it would be a mistake for you to abandon your present duties at this time. It might be misunderstood. Stick to the company until something better turns up. With this thought in view I withdraw the two days' limit mentioned recently to you, and extend the time to one week. Yours very truly, J. H. Wilson."
"Gad, the fellow thinks of everything," said Barnes to himself. "He is positively uncanny."
He read between the lines, and saw there a distinct warning. It had not occurred to him that his plan to leave for New York that day with Miss Cameron might be attended by disastrous results.
On reflection, he found the prospect far from disagreeable. A week or so with the Rushcroft company was rather attractive under the circumstances. The idea appealed to him.
But the jewels? What of them? He could not go gallivanting about the country with a half million dollars' worth of precious stones in his possession. A king's ransom strapped on his back! He would not be able to sleep a wink. Indeed, he could see himself wasting away to a mere shadow through worry and dread. Precious stones? They would develop into millstones, he thought, with an inward groan.