“That upsets your applecart, Cecil,” said Joan. “It’s obvious Sir Clinton’s right. Unless”—a fresh idea seemed to strike her—“unless the thief knew of the replicas and had wrong information, so that he imagined he was taking the Leonardos when he really was grabbing the replicas. I mean he may have thought that the replicas were in the top row instead of the lower one.”
She glanced at Sir Clinton’s face to see what he thought of her suggestion; but he betrayed nothing.
“Wouldn’t you have taken the whole six, Joan, if you had been in his shoes?”
Joan had to admit that she would have made certain by snatching the complete set.
“There’s more in it than that,” was all that Sir Clinton could be induced to say.
Before any more could be said, the door opened again. This time it was Michael Clifton who entered the museum.
“You’ve got him, Michael?” cried Joan. “Who was he?”
Michael shook his head.
“He got away from us. It’s a damned mysterious business how he managed it; but he slipped through our fingers, Joan.”
“Well, tell us what happened—quick!” Joan ordered. “I didn’t think you’d botch it, Michael.”