“I believe, Mr. Dangerfield, that you know all the time what has become of the Talisman. Is that why its disappearance doesn’t worry you?”
Rollo’s eyes grew suddenly stern.
“Do you suggest that I am shielding anyone?” he demanded, bluntly. “That’s rather a grave charge.”
“It wasn’t brought by me,” Westenhanger exclaimed. Put in that precise form, the matter took on an aspect which he had not considered at all. “Certainly I never suggested such a thing! I never so much as thought of it.”
Rollo acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head. Then, after a time, he spoke again.
“I could hardly complain if some such idea came into your mind. But no matter how strong the motive, I doubt if I would yield to it in this case. I would never dream of letting a guest of mine lie under suspicion when a word from me would clear up the matter. Never. Besides, whom could I shield?”
He met Westenhanger’s eye frankly.
“There are only two possible people: Eric and Helga. You might suspect either of them; but what does it amount to? Eric could have taken the thing, undoubtedly. He may have reasons for taking it. He’s left-handed, like the thief. . . .”
“You knew the thief was left-handed?” asked Westenhanger in surprise.
“So did you, evidently,” the old man retorted, unmoved. “It was obvious to anyone who saw how the cabinet was opened.”