"Oh, yes. She used to come with her aunt, and since Miss Morrison's death she has taken up some parish work. I know her much better than I did her aunt."
"Of course she has not yet heard of the theft?"
"No, I have not talked about it to any one. I thought silence was the best policy."
I quite agreed with him and suggested he should keep the theft a secret for the next few hours.
With Mr. Hayes and his hooligans' club at the back of my mind, I made one or two enquiries in the neighborhood, and then started for Walham Green. On my way to the Underground I met Percival, one of the men engaged upon the hotel robberies, and stood talking to him for a few minutes. He was rather keen on a clue he had got hold of, but I was now sufficiently interested in the stolen chalice not to be envious.
No. 3 Cedars Road was quite a small house—forty pounds a year perhaps, and Miss Belford was a more attractive person than I expected to find. I don't know why, but I had expected to see a typical old maid; instead of which I was met by a young woman who had considerable claims to beauty. She opened the door herself, her maid being out, and was astonished when I said the Vicar of St. Ethelburga's had sent me.
She asked me in to a small but tastefully appointed dining-room, and when I told her my news, seemed more concerned on her aunt's account than at the loss of the chalice.
"Poor auntie!" she exclaimed. "Whilst she had the jewels she was always afraid some one would steal them, and now—now some one has."
"Mr. Harding thought you would have a photograph of the chalice," I said.
"I am sorry, I haven't. There were two or three, but I don't know what auntie did with them. She was a dear, but had funny little secretive ways."