“As you know,” Westenhanger continued, “I was away from Friocksheim on the night of the Talisman’s disappearance. I’ve nothing fresh to say about that. Not to drag things out, I have suspicions”—he dragged out his words slowly—“which amount to . . . almost . . . a certainty . . . with regard to the disappearance of the Talisman.”
To avoid glancing at any particular person, he fixed his eyes on the tapestry of Diana’s hunting, as though that chase engrossed his whole visual attention for the moment.
“Somebody suggested that this business has been a mere practical joke,” he continued. “If so, then this is the last chance for the perpetrator of it to own up. Anybody volunteer?”
Nobody accepted his offer. At last Freddie Stickney broke the silence.
“Anyone can see it’s a practical joke. There’s the Talisman staring you in the face! It’s not been stolen at all.”
“Think so, Freddie? Perhaps you’re right. But some other things have gone amissing: Miss Cressage’s mirror, Mrs. Brent’s wrist-watch, and”—he glanced at Eric for confirmation—“a silver-mounted paper-knife from the library table.”
Eric nodded his confirmation of this. He was paying more attention to Westenhanger now.
“There’s no question of a practical joke in these cases, for the articles have not been returned.”
“That doesn’t prove anything about the Talisman,” Freddie objected with an air of acuteness. “It was returned; they weren’t. Obviously the cases are different.”
“If you insist on their reappearance,” answered Westenhanger, “it’s easy enough to gratify you.”