“In the bedroom, sir.”
“Go with the constable and fetch it for me to see.”
Raymond departed, and returned with the case; it was open, at least it was unlocked.
Freyberger opened it; there were no jewels in it, nothing but papers; he gave it into the care of the constable. “How was Sir Anthony dressed when you saw him at his bedroom door?” he asked, turning to Mr Folgam.
“Dressed for going out, even to his hat,” replied the secretary. “He had a dark overcoat on; Sir Anthony nearly always dressed in dark things.”
“Did he seem excited?”
“Well, I could not see his face very well, and as to his manner, no, I do not think it betrayed any excitement.”
Freyberger paused a moment in thought; Gyde vanishing from the house without having slept in his bed, the vanishing of the jewels, the death of Leloir, and the scream heard by Mr Folgam, all pointed towards the sinister.
But it was all vague. Gyde might have gone out on some business of his own at that late hour, taking his jewels with him; the scream heard by Folgam might have been an illusion, the death of Leloir might have been accidental. Each incident in itself was not impossible, viewed by the light of natural causes, but the conjunction of the three spelt, in lurid letters, crime.
There was work to be done, but it was not here.