Maurice Chacewater had entered the room while the Chief Constable was speaking. He had discarded his fancy costume and wore ordinary evening-dress, against the black of which his face looked white and drawn. He came up to the group and leaned on the show-case as if for support.
“So you’ve muddled it, Michael,” he commented, after a pause. “You didn’t get your hands on the fellow, after all?”
Dismissing Michael with almost open contempt, he turned to Sir Clinton.
“What’s the damage? Did the fellow get away with anything of value?”
“Nothing much: only your three replicas of the Leonardo medallions, so far as we can see.”
As he spoke, his glance telegraphed a warning to the rest of the group. It seemed unnecessary that Maurice should know all the ins and outs of the night’s doings.
But Foxy evidently failed to grasp the meaning of the Chief Constable’s look.
“We saved the real medallions for you, Maurice. Vote of thanks to us, eh?”
“How did you manage that?” Maurice demanded, with no sign of gratitude in his voice.
Quite oblivious of the warning looks thrown at him by the rest of the group, Foxy launched at once into a detailed account of the whole practical joke and its sequel. Maurice listened frowningly to the story. When it was completed, he made no direct comment.