He unwrapped his paper parcel and took out its contents one by one.
“Your wrist-watch, Mrs. Brent? No, don’t touch it, if you please. And Miss Cressage’s mirror. And the paper-knife with the silver handle, which most of us know well enough.”
Eileen was surprised to find that he had not included the Talisman in the series.
As he drew out article after article, Westenhanger had shot a sidelong glance at Mrs. Caistor Scorton. With the appearance of the stolen goods, her figure had grown rigid, and her face now showed fear as its dominant note. She waited breathlessly for Westenhanger’s next move.
“These things,” Westenhanger went on, “I recovered this morning from the place where they had been hidden.”
His eyes happened to light on Eric’s face as he spoke, and he noticed an expression flit across it as though this evidence had cleared up something. But immediately perplexity reappeared in Eric’s features. A fresh point seemed to have arisen to puzzle him.
Westenhanger refrained from dragging out the agony.
“The thief was Mrs. Caistor Scorton,” he said, bluntly.
At the words, Mrs. Caistor Scorton rose from her chair.
“Mr. Westenhanger is very free with his insinuations,” she commented. “So far, he has produced nothing to support that lie.”