Westenhanger relieved the slight strain that followed by getting up and stepping across to the Talisman’s case.
“I suppose you put this in the safe each night, Mr. Dangerfield? It would hardly do to leave it exposed like this for anyone to pick up. It must be worth a small fortune.”
Old Dangerfield looked across the room.
“It was valued last in my grandfather’s time, and they put it down as being worth some £50,000 then. The diamonds were said to be very fine; and you can see the size of the stones for yourself.”
“I don’t think I’d trust it in a small safe like that, if it were mine,” said Westenhanger, glancing at the little iron door from which Rollo Dangerfield had taken the document. “Any man with a pocket crowbar could open that thing and get away with the Talisman.”
The old man laughed shortly.
“Don’t trouble about the safe. The Talisman is never put into that. The fact is, you have come up against another of the Dangerfield superstitions. The Talisman is never moved from its place by day or night. It stands where you see it, always.”
The American sat up suddenly.
“You leave it there, sir? You take no precautions against crooks? You don’t mean to tell me anyone could step in here, lift that bell, and clear off with the goods?”
He paused, as if struck by a thought. Then he continued in another tone.