So we gathered from Dr. Firth himself when he came over, later in the day.
“The things were going to the Museum, in any case,” he remarked. “So far as that goes, I am no worse off. But it is intensely annoying that, for the sake of a handful of jewels, poor old Michael’s treasures are deprived of all their value as specimens. He was tremendously proud of them, and I feel as though I had failed in my trust as their custodian.” He gave a little dry laugh. “I believe I feel it more because I really didn’t care a hang for the things—a good horse or a good dog appeals to me far more than all Michael’s hideous rarities.”
“And what about the things that are left?” Mrs. McNab asked.
“I take no more chances. A man from the Museum is coming down to-morrow to oversee the packing of everything, and in a few days I hope the whole lot will be gone—I shall send them all down to Melbourne by motor-van, with the Museum man mounting guard over them.”
“No need for that,” put in Judy. “All you have to do is to put in a lion or so, and drape a few pythons round the van! Nobody will go near them then!”
“Wouldn’t they look gorgeous, going through Melbourne like that!” Jack exclaimed.
“They would create a mild sensation in Collins Street,” Dr. Firth agreed. “I’ll suggest it to the Museum official. Meanwhile, I have two detectives about the house, both looking very wise and filling little black notebooks with remarks on the situation. Do you know, I have the queerest certainty that those jewels are not far off? The detectives scoff at the notion, but it remains, all the same.”
“You have nothing to support the idea?” Mrs. McNab asked.
“Nothing whatever—it’s just a feeling. I suppose Michael would say that his queer old jewels have a certain uncanny power of suggesting their whereabouts!”
“What’s that mean?” queried Jack.