“Not much of a haul,” he said, letting it settle to the floor again. “Taking pure silver at eight shillings an ounce, and allowing for alloy, there's less than twenty pounds' worth there—much less.”
“I suppose this means that the thieves must have been disturbed, and left their swag behind them,” Paul Fordingbridge suggested.
Sir Clinton seemed intent on an examination of the window-fastenings; but Inspector Armadale curtly agreed with Paul Fordingbridge's hypothesis.
“It looks like it.”
The chief constable led the way to a fresh room.
“What's this?” he asked.
Miss Fordingbridge seemed suddenly to take a keener interest in the search.
“This is my nephew's room. I do hope they haven't disturbed anything in it. I've been so careful to keep it exactly as it used to be. And it would be such a pity if it were disturbed just at the very moment when he's come back.”
Sir Clinton's eye caught an expression of vexation on Paul Fordingbridge's face as his sister spoke of her nephew.
“He's been away, then?” he asked.