“But, my dear boy,” Denby said more seriously, “you are not in this. They’re after me and this.” He held up the necklace. “You’re a spectator merely.”
“Rot!” Monty cried. “I’m what they call an accessory and if you think I’m going to clear out now, all I can say is you ought to know me better than that. I want to be doing something; it’s the talking that gets on my nerves. They’ll be here soon, you may bet on that. They’re going to search this room.”
“Somebody’s done that already,” he was told.
“Who?” Monty cried anxiously. “That girl?”
“I think not. Her room is in the other wing, as I found out indirectly. To come here she’d have to run an awful risk. If she comes it will be later, when everyone is asleep.”
“Then who could it have been?” Monty demanded. He turned suddenly on his heel.
There was someone even now listening at the door. Then there was a faint, discreet knock. He dropped into the nearest chair and looked at the other man with a blanched face.
“Pinched!” he cried.
“Hsh!” the other commanded softly, and then louder: “Come in.”
The smiling face of Michael Harrington beamed upon them. In his hands he carried a tray whereon two generous highballs reposed.