Vance was watching him musingly.
“So when you raised my bet last night,” he said, “the amount represented a highly important item in your exchequer.”
Spotswoode smiled faintly.
“It represented practically every cent I had in the world.”
“Astonishin’! . . . And would you mind if I asked you why you selected the label of Beethoven’s Andante for your record?”
“Another miscalculation,” the man said wearily. “It occurred to me that if any one should, by any chance, open the phonograph before I could return and destroy the record, he wouldn’t be as likely to want to hear the classics as he would a more popular selection.”
“And one who detests popular music had to find it! I fear, Mr. Spotswoode, that an unkind fate sat in at your game.”
“Yes. . . . If I were religiously inclined, I might talk poppycock about retribution and divine punishment.”
“I’d like to ask you about the jewellery,” said Markham. “It’s not sportsmanlike to do it, and I wouldn’t suggest it, except that you’ve already confessed voluntarily to the main points at issue.”
“I shall take no offense at any question you desire to ask, sir,” Spotswoode answered. “After I had recovered my letters from the document-box, I turned the rooms upside down to give the impression of a burglary—being careful to use gloves, of course. And I took the woman’s jewellery for the same reason. Parenthetically, I had paid for most of it. I offered it as a sop to Skeel, but he was afraid to accept it; and finally I decided to rid myself of it. I wrapped it in one of the club newspapers and threw it in a waste-bin near the Flatiron Building.”