While he was standing there motionless, sounds in the hall outside disturbed him. Presently a knock sounded on the door. Before answering he picked up the pearls and placed them in his pocket. Then he called out: “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” came Monty’s voice in answer.
“Come in,” he called.
Monty entered nervously. “Everything all right?” he demanded.
“Yes,” his friend said, and then looked at him. Monty’s appearance was slightly dishevelled. “What’s happened?” he asked.
Monty ignored the question. “I was afraid everything might be all wrong,” he cried. “This is the first time I’ve been able to swallow comfortably for an hour. I thought my heart was permanently dislocated.”
“What’s been happening downstairs?” Denby inquired.
“Nothing,” Monty told him, “and it’s the limit to have nothing happen.”
“I thought Harrington was organizing a search party.”
“Oh, we searched,” Monty admitted. “I was nominally in charge, but Lambart was the directing genius. He was an officer’s orderly in his youth and is some tactician, believe me.” Monty pointed to his muddied knees. “He stretched clothes-lines over the paths to catch the tramps, and I was the first victim. We looked everywhere, all of us, Lambart, the under-butler, two chauffeurs and I, and we didn’t even flush a cat.”