“He didn’t seem to worry over it,” Freddie reminded her.
“Mr. Dangerfield’s a thoroughbred,” Cynthia commented. “No matter how he felt about it he’d never show it to us.”
“You think not? No? Well, perhaps not,” the irrepressible Freddie conceded graciously. “That’s one way of looking at it, certainly.”
Westenhanger took no part in the talk. His mind was busy with the task of fitting this new evidence to the earlier events. If a thief had taken the thing, why had the Talisman come back? The only possible explanation was that the thief had taken fright. But why should he take fright? So far as Westenhanger knew, nothing had come out which made the solution of the problem any clearer, and only imminent exposure could have forced the culprit to disgorge. Days had passed since the loss of the Talisman. There had been plenty of time to get it into a place of safe concealment. Why take the risk of replacing it in the cabinet? There seemed to be no plausible answer to that question.
But if it wasn’t a thief, then it must have been one of the Dangerfields. One could leave old Rollo out of the business. He was the last man to play a practical joke on his guests—especially a practical joke which carried a tang as nasty as this affair did. Helga was another possible agent, and an innocent agent if it did turn out that she had a hand in the thing. Westenhanger began to incline towards this solution. But then Helga, according to Douglas, was right-handed, while the Talisman had been removed by someone who was obviously left-handed. Perhaps one turned left-handed in one’s sleep. But on recalling fragments of his dreams, Westenhanger had to admit that he remembered himself as right-handed during his sleep. That seemed to exclude Helga.
Then it flashed across his mind that Eric had been on the watch on both nights, on the date of the Talisman’s vanishing and—last night—when it returned. He had the place to himself on both occasions, and could do as he chose. He was left-handed, too. But against this, there was old Rollo’s statement, evidently made in good faith.
Eileen Cressage came into the room as he reached this point in his cogitation. She sat down beside him, and he hastened to clear up an item which had occurred to him.
“Had young Dangerfield sprained his ankle before he left here with you that morning?”
“No. He was all right. He sprained it in London, somehow—getting out of the way of a taxi, I think he said.”
“Funny thing to happen, surely?”