"Nothing."
"Can't remember what you did with the stuff, either, I suppose?" The cigar went back to its appointed berth. "Too bad. You must've been stewed as a boiled owl, all right."
"Patience. Tonight, when Mrs. McFee called in the police to arrest Mallison for having sneaked back like the thief he is, after leaving this house in the character of a guest and friend, he was searched and found to possess"—Lanyard made provokingly deliberate pause—"a pocket kit of burglar's tools."
"Sounds fishy." Nevertheless, more business with the cigar told of strain to keep up appearances under unrelenting study. "That all your news?"
"But by no means all. Further search proved that Mallison had been guilty of the amazing indiscretion of bringing the emeralds, concealed upon his person, back into the house from which he had stolen them."
Untouched by Morphew's hand the cigar between his teeth dropped its ash. "How do you mean?" he mumbled, watching his fat bedizened fingers brush gray flakes from the lapel of his dinner jacket. "The emeralds couldn't have been found on Mally unless"—the colourless eyes lifted to Lanyard's face—"unless you put them there!"
"My gifts are small, I am hardly so clever as monsieur flatters me by supposing."
"By God!" Morphew heaved out of his chair in a cold rage of conviction—"you planted the stuff on the boy!"
"But," Lanyard pointed out, his suavity unruffled—"if you are so positive the emeralds were in my possession before they were found on Mallison, the admission is implicit that you had compromising knowledge of the robbery. Else how can you be so sure?"
"I'm satisfied you stole 'em," Morphew growled—"I'm satisfied you planted 'em on Mally for fear they'd be found on you."