“Oh, it’s not in the papers. It’s a Friocksheim tit-bit, exclusive. The Dangerfield Talisman’s been stolen!”
If he expected to read anything in the American’s face, he was disappointed. Wraxall’s lean countenance betrayed no emotion of any sort, not even surprise. He continued to masticate stolidly for a few moments, as though excluding all extraneous ideas. Freddie felt that a good item of news had been wasted.
“How do you know it’s been stolen?” inquired Wraxall, at length.
“Well, it’s gone, at any rate.”
Wraxall glanced across the table.
“That’s hardly the same thing, Mr. Stickney. If I drop a dollar in the street without noticing it, the dollar’s gone; but it isn’t necessarily stolen. When I send a clock to be cleaned, it’s gone too; but the clock-maker isn’t a thief for all that. Let’s be accurate, if you please.”
This was hardly the reception Freddie had anticipated.
“Well, it’s gone, at any rate,” he repeated. “And if it’s gone, somebody must have taken it. It didn’t walk off by itself. And if anybody took it, that’s theft, isn’t it?”
Wraxall appeared to consider this proposition with some care before replying.
“No,” he replied, after a pause. “No, I’d hardly care to go so far as that. Hardly. Mr. Rollo Dangerfield may have taken it—that wouldn’t be theft, since it belongs to him. Somebody may have borrowed it—borrowing isn’t theft. No, it seems to me you’re rather apt to jump to conclusions, Mr. Stickney. I can’t follow you to that length.”