“Can’t say fairer than that,” Foxy admitted. “Always liked that plain, straightforward way of doing things myself.”
A recollection of his talk with Sir Clinton passed across Cecil Chacewater’s mind, and without reflection he communicated it to the others:
“By the way, Sir Clinton seemed a trifle worried over this affair. He pointed out to me that some scallywag might creep in amongst the guests and play Old Harry in the museum if he got the chance.”
Just at this moment, Maurice Chacewater passed along the alley in the winter-garden from which the nook opened.
“Maurice!” Joan called to her brother. “Come here for a moment, please.”
Maurice turned back and entered the recess. He seemed tired; and there was a certain hesitancy in his manner as though he were not quite sure of himself. His sister made a gesture inviting him to sit down, but he appeared disinclined to stay.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, with a weary air.
“Cecil’s been suggesting that it’s hardly safe to leave the collections open to-morrow night, in case a stranger got in with a mask on. Hadn’t we better have some one to stay in the museum and look after them?”
“Cecil needn’t worry his head,” Maurice returned, ignoring his brother. “I’m putting one of the keepers on to watch the museum.”
He turned on his heel and went off along the corridor. Foxy gazed after him with a peculiar expression on his face.