"No, but a wire came from Washington just after you left to watch out for a hundred-thousand-dollar string of pearls sold at a private auction in London last week to an American named—"
"I don't care what his name was," Gregory cut in. "What was the date they were sold?"
"The sixteenth."
Gregory glanced at the calendar.
"And to-day is the twenty-second," he mused. "What boats are due in the next three days?"
"The Cretic docks this afternoon and the Tasmania ought to get in to-morrow. That'll be all until the end of the week."
"Right!" snapped Gregory. "Don't let a soul off the Cretic until I've had a look at her passenger list. It's too late to go down the harbor now, but not a person's to get off that ship until I've had a chance to look 'em over. Also cable for a copy of the Tasmania's passenger list. Hurry it up!"
Less than ten minutes after he had slipped on board the Cretic, however, Gregory gave the signal which permitted the gangplank to be lowered and the passengers to proceed as usual—except for the fact that the luggage of everyone and the persons of not a few were searched with more than the average carefulness. But not a trace of the pearls was found, as Joe had anticipated. A careful inspection of the passenger list and a few moments with the purser had convinced him that none of his three suspects were on board.
Shortly after he returned to the office, the list of the Tasmania's passengers began to come over the cables. Less than half a page had been received when Gregory uttered a sudden exclamation, reached for his notebook, compared a name in it with one which appeared on the cabled report, and indulged in the luxury of a deep-throated chuckle.
"Greg's got a nibble somewhere," commented one of the bystanders.