There were not many people in his Pullman. Dangerfield had his private car. None saw Anthony Trent open the ball pouch on the Dangerfield bag and extract therefrom an aged and somewhat dented ball. He balanced it almost lovingly in his hand. Never in the history of the great game had a ball been seen with the worth of this one. And yet he had so cunningly extracted its core and repaired it when once the Mount Aubyn ruby was nestling in its strange home that detection was unlikely, even were an examination made. A porter had the Dangerfield bag and Trent’s suitcase when Devlin came up to him. He was no longer obliging. He had spent wearisome hours in the privacy of the Dangerfield car examining every part of the Trent impedimenta. The task had wearied him and had been fruitless.
“You got the boss’s clubs,” he said shortly.
Languidly Trent examined what his porter carried.
“You’re to blame for it,” he answered, and as Mr. Dangerfield came up raised his voice a little. He knew Devlin suspected him, and he sensed that some day the two would meet as open foes.
“This man of yours,” cried Trent, “tried to give me your clubs instead of my own. I wouldn’t lose mine for anything.”
“You crack golfers couldn’t do anything without your own specially built clubs,” jeered the millionaire, “I believe it’s half the game.”
Trent smiled.
“There’s something in the ball, too,” he admitted, and had difficulty in keeping his face straight.
Mrs. Kinney was delighted to see her employer home again, and hurried to a convenient delicatessen store so that he might be fed. It was when she came back that her eye caught sight of the brass lamp from Benares.
Where had been the unsightly gap caused by her breaking of the red glass was now a piece which glittered gaily.