“Well, there it is,” said Miller; “but if you can’t remember anything about it, we must see if the analysts can find out what was in it.” With which he folded it and having put it into an envelope, bestowed it in his pocket in company with his other treasures.
This was the last of the discoveries. When they had finished their inspection of Madeline’s room the officers went on to Barbara’s, which they examined with the same minute care as they had bestowed on the others, but without bringing anything of interest to light. Then they inspected the servants’ bedrooms and finally the kitchen and the other premises appertaining to it, but still without result. It was a tedious affair and we were all relieved when, at last, it came to an end. Barbara and I escorted the two detectives to the street door, at which the superintendent paused to make a few polite acknowledgments.
“I must thank you, Madam,” said he, “for the help you have given us and for the kind and reasonable spirit in which you have accepted a disagreeable necessity. I assure you that we do not usually meet with so much consideration. A search of this kind is always an unpleasant duty to carry out and it is not made any more pleasant by a hostile attitude on the part of the persons concerned.”
“I can understand that,” replied Barbara; “but really the thanks are due from me for the very courteous and considerate way in which you have discharged what I am sure must be a most disagreeable duty. And of course, it had to be; and I am glad that it has been done so thoroughly. I never supposed that you would find what you are seeking in this house. But it was necessary that the search should be made here if only to prove that you must look for it somewhere else.”
“Quite so, Madam,” the superintendent returned, a little drily; “and now I will wish you good afternoon and hope that we shall have no further occasion to trouble you.”
As I closed the street door and turned back along the hall, the dining room door—apparently already ajar—opened and Madeline and Wallingford stepped out; and I could not help reflecting, as I noted their pale, anxious faces and shaken bearing, how little their appearance supported the confident, optimistic tone of Barbara’s last remarks. But, at any rate, they were intensely relieved that the ordeal was over, and Wallingford even showed signs of returning truculence. Whatever he was going to say, however, was cut short by Barbara, who, passing the door and moving towards the staircase, addressed me over her shoulder.
“Do you mind coming up to my den, Rupert? I want to ask your advice about one or two things.”
The request seemed a little inopportune; but it was uttered as a command and I had no choice but to obey. Accordingly, I followed Barbara up the stairs, leaving the other two in the hall, evidently rather disconcerted by this sudden retreat. At the turn of the stairs I looked down on the two pale faces. In Madeline’s I seemed to read a new apprehensiveness, tinged with suspicion; on Wallingford’s a scowl of furious anger which I had no patience to seek to interpret.
Chapter VIII.
Thorndyke Speaks Bluntly
When I had entered the little sitting room and shut the door, I turned to Barbara, awaiting with some curiosity what she had to say to me. But for a while she said nothing, standing before me silently, and looking at me with a most disquieting expression. All her calm self-possession had gone. I could read nothing in her face but alarm and dismay.