“Or a forger,” interposed Miss Boler.
“Or a forger. But no such person is known to us. And even that is mere guesswork.”
“Your father was not interested in coins, then?”
“As a sculptor, yes, and more especially in medals and plaquettes. But not as a collector. He had no desire to possess; only to create. And so far as I know, he was not acquainted with any collectors. So this discovery of the inspector’s, so far from solving the mystery, only adds a fresh problem.”
She reflected for a few moments with knitted brows; then, turning to me quickly, she asked:
“Did the inspector take you into his confidence at all? He was very reticent to me, though most kind and sympathetic. But do you think that he, or the others, are taking any active measures?”
“My impression,” I answered reluctantly, “is that the police are not in a position to do anything. The truth is that this villain seems to have got away without leaving a trace.”
“That is what I feared,” she sighed. Then with sudden passion, though in a quiet, suppressed voice, she exclaimed: “But he must not escape! It would be too hideous an injustice. Nothing can bring back my dear father from the grave; but if there is a God of Justice, this murderous wretch must be called to account and made to pay the penalty of his crime.”
“He must,” Miss Boler assented in deep, ominous tones, “and he shall; though God knows how it is to be done.”
“For the present,” said I, “there is nothing to be done but to wait and see if the police are able to obtain any fresh information; and meanwhile to turn over every circumstance that you can think of; to recall the way your father spent his time, the people he knew, and the possibility in each case that some cause of enmity may have arisen.”