“And I am!” asserted Iff vigorously. “I am, damn it! I’m in no danger of losing any necklace; but if he gets away with the goods, that infernal scoundrel will manage some way to implicate me and rob me of my good name and my liberty as well. Hell!” he exploded—“seems to me I’m entitled to be excited!”
Staff’s unspoken comment was that this explanation of the little man’s agitation was something strained and inconclusive: unsatisfactory at best. It was not apparent how (even assuming the historical Mr. Ismay to be at that moment stealing the Cadogan collar from Miss Searle) the crime could be fastened on Mr. Iff, in the face of the positive alibi Staff could furnish him. On the other hand, it was indubitable that Iff believed himself endangered in some mysterious way, or had some other and still more secret cause for disquiet. For his uneasiness was so manifest, in such sharp contrast with his habitual, semi-cynical repose, that even he hadn’t attempted to deny it.
With a shrug Staff turned back to the telephone and asked for the manager of the exchange, explained his predicament and was promised that, if the call could be traced back to the original station, he should have the number. He was, however, counselled to be patient. Such a search would take time, quite possibly and very probably.
He explained this to Iff, whose disgust was ill-disguised.
“And meanwhile,” he expostulated, “we’re sitting here with our hands in our laps—useless—and Ismay, as like ’s not, is—” He broke into profanity, trotting up and down and twisting his small hands together.
“I wish,” said Staff, “I knew what makes you act this way. Ismay can’t saddle you with a crime committed by him when you’re in my company—”
“You don’t know him,” interpolated Iff.
“And you surely can’t be stirred so deeply by simple solicitude for Miss Searle.”
“Oh, can’t I? And how do you know I can’t?” barked the little man. “Gwan—leave me alone! I want to think.”
“Best wishes,” Staff told him pleasantly. “I’m going to change my clothes.”