“I take it that you’re fully covered by insurance?”
Rollo Dangerfield’s face took on a faintly sardonic expression. He seemed to enjoy surprising the American.
“Not at all. The Talisman has never been insured. Why should we insure it? It always comes back. We have electric alarms on all the outer doors and the windows, of course; but they are merely put on because my wife is nervous. The Talisman can look after itself, I assure you.”
Wraxall looked at his host in amazement.
“Do you really mean that?”
He thought for a moment, and then a fresh idea seemed to strike him.
“Now I see! You’ve got some medieval mantrap or spring-gun attached to the thing, something that grips your burglar if he comes after your property?”
Rollo Dangerfield’s laugh was quite free from sarcasm; he evidently enjoyed the jest which he alone could see.
“No, Mr. Wraxall, nary a spring-gun, as I believe some of your compatriots might say. Not so much as a mantrap. You could lift the thing from its bed at any hour of the day or night without the slightest risk. My nephew Eric has rooms in the tower above us; but even if he heard you, I doubt if he would trouble to interrupt you. We know our Talisman. It always comes home.”
The American was plainly astounded.