Sir Clinton held out his hand and took the medallions from Foxy. For a moment or two he examined them, then he passed them to Cecil.
“Have you any way of telling easily whether these are the real things or the replicas?”
Cecil inspected them one by one with minute care.
“These are the real things,” he announced. “What else could they be?”
“You’ve no doubt about it?” questioned Sir Clinton.
“Not a bit,” Cecil assured him. “When Foxy made the replicas, my father had a tiny hole—just a dot—drilled in the edge of each electrotype so as to distinguish the real things from the sham. There are no holes here; so these are the real Leonardos.”
Sir Clinton swung round suddenly on Foxy.
“Now, Mr. Polegate,” he said, sternly, “you’ve given a lot of trouble with this silly joke of yours. I’m not concerned with your taste in humour, or I might say a few things you wouldn’t care to hear. But you can repair the damage to some extent if you give me a frank account of your doings in here to-night. I want the whole story, please.”
Foxy was evidently completely taken aback by Sir Clinton’s tone.
“Come, we’re waiting. There’s no time to lose,” Sir Clinton said, curtly, as Foxy seemed to hesitate. Joan and the others showed by their faces that they could not quite understand the reason for the Chief Constable’s asperity.