Harry Townsend was not aware of the chain of suspicion that was tightening around him; but he was too clever not to use every precaution. Once or twice he had come across the small, dark detective who was making investigations in Mrs. Erwin’s house—the large, blond man, named Burton, had kept in the background—but knowing that the servants had been under suspicion, he supposed that the search was being made on their account. He knew of no act of his own that could possibly implicate him in the robberies. He came and went among Mrs. Erwin’s guests, and was on a friendly footing with their most fashionable friends at Newport. He had seen no one else during his visit, as the whole world was privileged to know.
The only act that the detective, Rowley, was able to report to his superior was that Mr. Townsend mailed his own letters. In Mrs. Erwin’s household it was the custom of her guests to place all their mail in a bag, which the butler sent to the postoffice at regular hours; but Mr. Townsend preferred to mail his own letters. This act occasioned no comment. Other guests, writing important business letters, had done the same thing.
“And Townsend has mailed only letters,” continued Rowley in making his report. “Not a single package, even of the smallest size, has gone out through the postoffice. The jewels are still in Newport.”
Mr. Townsend had already begun to discuss with his hostess the possibility of his soon having to leave her charming home. “I have presumed on your hospitality too long,” he said to Mrs. Erwin, several times. “When the famous Casino ball is over I must be getting back to New York.”
To Gladys he explained: “My dear Gladys, my holiday time must end some day. I shall be able to see you often when you go back to Kingsbridge. I am going into a broker’s office as soon as I get back to New York. I have been loafing around in Europe for the last two years, but I have decided that, even if a fellow has money enough to make him fairly comfortable, work is the thing for the true American!”
To-day Harry Townsend walked to the post-office alone. He carried three letters. One of them was to a steamship company engaging passage to Naples for “John Brown.” The steamer was due to sail the following Wednesday. The other two letters had New York addresses. When they arrived at their first destination, they were to be remailed to other addresses. A tall, blond man, who happened to be lounging in the postoffice at the time Mr. Townsend entered it, observed that the young gentleman was anxious to know when the letters would be delivered in the city.
The letters posted, Townsend walked over to the Casino courts, where Bab and Ruth were playing tennis. He had promised Gladys to join her there. He still had some investigations he desired to make. But he walked slowly. Clever fingers must be directed by a clever brain, whether their work be good or evil. No matter how well he knew he could depend on his wonderful fingers to do their share of the work, the “boy Raffles” always thought out carefully the plan of his theft before he tried to execute it.
On Monday night, at the Casino tournament ball, he planned to make his final theft. This accomplished, he could leave Newport feeling he had reaped a rich harvest, even in the summer season, when harvests are not supposed to be gathered.
Harry Townsend, alias half a dozen other names, had seen the jewel he most coveted for his final effort. It was a diamond tiara belonging to one of the richest and most prominent women in Newport. His schemes were carefully laid. He was waiting for Monday night.
At about three o’clock, on this same Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Post and the Countess Bertouche stopped in a small automobile for Grace and Mollie. They had no one with them except the chauffeur.