He drove straight to Scotland Yard. There in the office sat Furneaux.
For a long time they conferred—Winter with hardly a word, one hand on his thigh, the other at his mustache, looking at Furneaux with a frown, with curious musing eyes, meditating, silent. And Furneaux told how the celt and the stiletto were missing from Osborne's museum.
"And the inference?" said Winter, speaking at last, his round eyes staring widely at Furneaux.
"The inference, on the face of it, is that Osborne is guilty," said Furneaux quietly.
"An innocent man, Furneaux?" said Winter almost with a groan of reproach—"an innocent man?"
Furneaux's eyes flashed angrily an instant, and some word leapt to his lips, but it was not uttered. He stood up.
"Well, that's how it stands for the moment. Time will show—I must be away," he said.
And when he had gone out, Winter rose wearily, and paced with slow steps a long time through the room, his head bent quite down, staring. Presently he came upon a broken cigar, such as Furneaux delighted in smelling. Then a fierce cry broke from him.
"Furneaux, my friend! Why, this is madness! Oh, d—n everything!"