“One would like to wring Freddie’s neck, of course,” Douglas mused aloud; “but that would mean a row. We can’t have rows. With luck, we can stifle this business; but a row would make it anybody’s news. Freddie gets off this time, I’m afraid.”
“He does. I’m sorry.”
“The infernal thing is that the little sweep’s right, you know, Conway. We are all under suspicion. I don’t suspect anyone myself—not my line. But there’s no getting away from it. Someone did take that damned Talisman.”
“Afraid so. The only hope that I have is that it may have been a practical joke after all, and that the joker was afraid to own up. Trusted to putting the thing back again without being spotted.”
“Possible, of course,” conceded Douglas. “But I can’t identify the prize idiot.”
“Nor can I. Well, take the other thing and see if it leads you any further—theft, I mean. I’m out of it, by pure luck. You’ve all the money you want. Morchard has more than’s good for him. The Scorton woman is rolling in it. I take it that the girls don’t come into question?”
He glanced interrogatively at Douglas, who nodded his agreement.
“Then that leaves the American and Freddie as a residue. Know anything about Wraxall, Douglas?”
“Nix, as I suppose he’d say. He’s a collector, of sorts, and rolling in money, I’ve heard.”
“H’m!” said Westenhanger, pausing for a moment.