It so happened that, some days after this conversation, Hopford had occasion to call to see Stapleton to obtain from him some facts about the approaching ball at the Albert Hall. Being, as all journalists have to be, of an inquisitive disposition, he referred incidentally to the theft of jewelry and notes from Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson’s house in Cavendish Square, and casually inquired if the stolen property had been recovered.
“I am sure I don’t know,” Stapleton answered quickly. “What makes you think I should know?”
“I thought you might,” Hopford replied calmly, “as you are acquainted with the lady and were at supper at her house on the night of the robbery.”
“Who told you I was there?”
“Oh, the press generally knows these things.”
“‘The press,’ as you call it, is a damned nuisance at times,” Stapleton said sharply. “I suppose a report of that robbery would have appeared in every paper if Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson had not asked the editors to refrain from giving her undesirable notoriety. I can’t think why newspapers always want to publish detailed reports of crimes. Such reports do a lot of harm, I am sure—a lot of harm.”
“The papers wouldn’t publish the reports if the public was not anxious to read them,” Hopford replied with assurance. “You should blame the public, Mr. Stapleton, not the press.”
“Nothing ever did appear about that robbery, did it?” Stapleton asked, looking at the young reporter rather oddly.
“Not so far as I am aware.”
Stapleton remained silent for a minute. He seemed to be thinking.