Then Barbara told him of her talk with Nur-el-Din in the dancer’s dressing-room on the previous evening and of the package which Nur-el-Din had entrusted to her care.
“This terrible business put it completely out of my head,” said Barbara. “In the presence of the police this morning, I looked over my bedroom and even searched my hand-bag which the police sent back to me this afternoon without finding that the burglars had stolen anything. It was only just now, when we were talking about our meeting in Nur-el-Din’s room last night, that her little package suddenly flashed across my mind. And then I looked through my handbag again and convinced myself that it was not there.”
“But are you sure the police haven’t taken it?”
“Absolutely certain,” was the reply. “I remember perfectly what was in my hand-bag this morning when I went through it, and the same things are on that table over there now.”
“Do you know what was in this package!” said Desmond.
“Just a small silver box, oblong and quite plain, about so big,” she indicated the size with her hands, “about as large as a cigarette-box. Nur-el-Din said it was a treasured family possession of hers, and she was afraid of losing it as she traveled about so much. She asked me to say nothing about it and to keep it until the war was over or until she asked me for it.”
“Then,” said Desmond, “this clears Nur-el-Din!”
“What do you mean,” said Barbara, looking up.
“Simply that she wouldn’t have broken into your place and killed your father in order to recover her own package...”
“But why on earth should Nur-el-Din be suspected of such a thing?”