“I met young Stickney at breakfast. He said something about the Talisman.”
Old Dangerfield let his newspaper slip from his hand as though he were tired of holding it.
“Freddie? Oh, Freddie can be trusted to know all about everything. He’s often right, too, quite often. Yes, the Talisman’s gone.”
The old man’s voice was completely indifferent; he might have been discussing some matter of no especial concern, for all the interest that showed in his tone. The American was taken aback. These English, he reflected, don’t give much away. Here was a man who had lost overnight the thing that he evidently valued as the first among his possessions; and yet he showed less emotion than he might have done if a cat had gone astray. Wraxall’s opinion of Rollo Dangerfield went up considerably. There was a dignity behind this indifference which impressed him deeply. No fuss, no excitement to be seen. The thing was gone; but the old man could hold himself in. His guests wouldn’t be disturbed by him. Everything would go on as usual at Friocksheim. Rollo Dangerfield evidently carried the courtesy of a host to the extreme.
“That’s a big loss,” said Wraxall, slowly. “But I expect you’re counting on getting it back. It would be difficult to dispose of. It would certainly be hard to sell. Still . . . aren’t you sorry you didn’t close with my offer last night?”
Rollo Dangerfield turned an inscrutable face to his guest.
“Sorry I didn’t sell the Talisman while I had it? No, it never was for sale. The matter didn’t arise.”
The American persisted.
“I suppose the police have some clue?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders slightly.