“What language was it in?”
“Russian.”
Snell glanced up quickly, as the thought flashed to his mind that Lady Rawson was herself said to be Russian by birth. Sir Robert did not meet his eyes. He appeared to be regarding an ivory paper-knife that he was fingering. His face was drawn and haggard; he seemed to have aged by ten years in the course of the last few hours, yet he was perfectly self-possessed.
“Whom do you suspect, Sir Robert?”
The blunt, point-blank question would have startled any ordinary man into an admission—even by an unguarded gesture—that he was concealing something. But Sir Robert Rawson’s face betrayed nothing, and he continued to play with the paper-knife as he replied:
“If I had any reason to suspect anyone, I should have told you at once, Mr. Snell. The whole affair is a mystery to me.”
“They were in the safe last night?”
“I cannot say. As a matter of fact, I meant to have dealt with them last night, but when we returned—Lady Rawson and I were at a dinner party—I felt extremely tired and went straight to bed. When I found the papers were missing this morning I was not especially alarmed at the moment; I imagined they had proved to be of little consequence, and that perhaps Carling had taken them with him to finish later. It was only when I rang him up on the telephone, and he came round, that I realized how serious the matter was, and even then I thought it possible that he might have merely mislaid them.”
“Who besides yourself and Mr. Carling knew of the existence and importance of the papers, and that they were in the house?”