Briefly, with many sobs, the dancer told him of the silver box which she had entrusted to Barbara Mackwayte’s charge.
“And now,” she sobbed, “it is lost and all my sacrifice, all my precautions, have been in vain!”
“But how?” asked Desmond. “Why should you think this box should have been taken? From what I remember reading of this case in the English newspapers there was a burglary at the house, but the thief has been arrested and the property restored. You have only to ask this Miss—what was the name? ah! yes, Mackwayte for your box and she will restore it!”
“No, no!” Nur-el-Din answered wearily, “you don’t understand. This was no burglary. The man who murdered Monsieur Arthur murdered him to get my silver box.”
“But,” objected Desmond, “a silver box! What value has a trifling object like that? My dear young lady, murder is not done for a silver box!”
“No, no,” Nur-el-Din repeated, “you don’t understand! You don’t know what that box contained!”
Then she relapsed into silence, plucking idly at the shred of cambric she held between her fingers.
Already dusk was falling and the room was full of shadows. The golden radiance of the afternoon had died and eerie wraiths of fog were peering-in at the window.
Desmond held his peace. He felt he was on the threshold of a confession that might rend the veil of mystery surrounding the murder at Seven Kings. He stared fixedly at the ugly red tablecloth, conscious that the big eyes of the girl were searching his face.
“You have honest eyes,” she said presently. “I told you that once before... that night we met at your house... do you remember? Your eyes are English. But you are a German, hein?”