“The police have nothing to do with it. How could they have a clue?”
Wraxall was frankly astonished.
“You haven’t called them in? Why, I should have thought the very first thing to do would be to get them to work while the scent was fresh?”
A faint shade of irritation showed in Rollo Dangerfield’s eyes, the first sign of emotion the American had seen. But when he spoke, his voice was as indifferent as before.
“Why should we call in the police? The Talisman will find its way home without their help. Would you bring the police among your guests, stir up trouble, make everyone uncomfortable with suspicions and cross-questioning? No, Mr. Wraxall, we shan’t need the police at Friocksheim. I told you so, before the Talisman disappeared, and you obviously didn’t believe me. But you see now that you were mistaken; I meant what I said.”
The American was shrewd enough to see what had given offence. Old Dangerfield resented the slight on his veracity much more than the loss of the Talisman. He made amends frankly.
“Quite right, Mr. Dangerfield. Honestly, I thought you were just leading us on, that night. I took it that you were pulling my leg. It seemed to me that perhaps it was one of your English jokes, just put out to see if the stranger would swallow it. We often do that ourselves, over there. But I see you mean it, right enough, now.”
Rollo Dangerfield reassured him with a faint smile.
“I see your point of view. I ought to have thought of it in that light.”
Wraxall considered for a moment or two before speaking again.