“I haven’t it.”
“But I thought—”
“I did have it a moment ago. I gave it to—er—”
“You laid it down on the mantelpiece. I saw you,” said Alberta.
“Ah, yes; so I did. But it’s not there.”
Salt raised his voice. “Who has the English manuscript?”
No response, until a gasp from Bob. “Look, isn’t that it?—in the fire!”
Something ashen and fluffy was smouldering on top of the log, something that turned from grey to translucent pink when the flame brightened. Salt reached the fireplace in a leap, bent down, scrutinized the fragment.
“That’s it, sure enough.” He ever so carefully attempted to remove the crinkled piece, which vanished at the first touch of the fire-shovel.
Crofts extended the parchment in mollifying wise. “At any rate,” he said, “we have the original here. No trouble having a new translation made.”