Mrs. Caistor Scorton glanced round nervously once or twice; then, apparently satisfied that there were no onlookers, she made her way to a pollard willow which overhung the water. Still on the alert, she put her hand far down into a hollow in the tree-trunk and drew out something. It was too far off for Eileen to see more than the movement, but Westenhanger whispered a running description of what his glasses showed him.
“She’s taken something from the hole. . . . It’s very small. . . . I can hardly make it out. Gold, apparently, by the glint. . . . Now she’s putting her hand in again . . . Something bigger this time . . . Yes . . . Your silver mirror. . . . It’s tarnished a bit, I’m afraid. . . . Now for it. She’s trying again. . . .”
His tone showed a sharp disappointment.
“It looks like a silver-mounted paper-knife. . . . Yes, that’s it. . . . Ah! I thought so. She’s got more in that hoard of hers. . . . Something moderate-sized this time. . . . Confound it! She’s turned away from us. I can’t see it. . . . Now she’s putting them all back again. Quick, Eileen! Back along the path and get in among the bushes. Hide! As quick as you can. Don’t make a sound.”
They managed to conceal themselves before Mrs. Caistor Scorton came back into the belt of trees; and from behind the bushes they watched her go past. Believing herself alone, she took no thought for her expression; and on her face they read the utmost bewilderment, faintly tinged with fear.
“She hasn’t spotted it,” Westenhanger thought to himself. “She ought to have done. But I expect she’s completely jarred up. Well, this is the end of her little game.”
As soon as Mrs. Caistor Scorton had disappeared Westenhanger came out of his concealment and beckoned Eileen back to the path.
“Now that the coast’s clear,” he said, “we can have a look at the magpie’s hoard. No questions yet!” he added, as she began to frame one. “Facts, first of all; and you can draw your own conclusions.”
They went down to the tree; and Westenhanger soon found the hollow which Mrs. Caistor Scorton had used as her cache. Putting his hand into it, he drew out in succession the articles which he had seen through his glasses.
“There’s Mrs. Brent’s wrist-watch,” he said, holding up his first trophy. “No! Don’t touch it! I’ll lay it on the grass.”