A gang of Continental thieves was suspected, because, as a matter of fact, a robbery similar in detail had, six months before, taken place on the night express between Cologne and Berlin. In that case also a strange ticket-inspector had been seen. The stolen property had, no doubt, been thrown from the train to accomplices. Such method was perfectly safe for the thief, because, unless actually detected in the act of tossing out a bag or parcel, no evidence could very well be brought against him.
Therefore the police, and through them the newspapers, decided that the same gang was responsible for the theft of the Archduchess’s necklace as for the robbery in Germany.
Myself, I read eagerly every line of what appeared in the morning and evening press.
Many ridiculous theories were put forward by some journalists in working up the “story,” and more than once I found cruel and unfounded reflections cast upon the sole female member of the party—my dear wife.
This was all extremely painful to me—all so utterly incomprehensible that, as I sat alone in the silence of my deserted home, I felt that no further misfortune could fall upon me. The iron of despair had entered my very soul.
Marlowe called one afternoon, and I was compelled to make excuse for Sylvia’s absence, telling him she was down at Mrs. Shuttleworth’s.
“You don’t look quite yourself, old man,” he had said. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing,” I laughed faintly. “I’m a bit run down, that’s all. Want a change, I suppose. I think I shall go abroad.”
“I thought your wife had had sufficient of the Continent,” he remarked. “Curiously enough,” he added, as he sat back and blew a cloud of cigarette-smoke from his lips, “I thought I saw her the day before yesterday standing on the railway platform at Banbury. I was coming down from Birmingham to Oxford, and the train slowed down in passing Banbury. I happened to be looking out at the time, and I could have sworn that I saw her.”
“At Banbury!” I ejaculated, leaning forward.