“Then why was he admitted?” asked Mrs. Westward.
“Consider the circumstances,” Anthony Trent reminded her. He was becoming thoroughly interested. “Here he was almost in the house, his foot in the door. All the servants were away. No matter what Apthorpe said he would have got in. What more likely than that the proud overbearing old man felt sufficient confidence in his nerve and his revolver? Or if he didn’t he would not admit it. The curious part to my mind was how this unknown timed it so exactly. He turned up just as the servants were going out for the evening.” He turned to Mrs. Westward, “Why didn’t Miss Thompson telephone for police aid do you suppose? Does it seem strange to you that she telephoned to you instead?”
“Knowing Andrew Apthorpe it does not,” she answered. “He would have been furious if she had done so. To begin with he has had many squabbles with the local authorities over trumpery matters. He was most unpopular. The last thing he would have desired would be to have them in his house. None of the servants were from Groton and he would not have them associating with local people.”
Anthony Trent ruminated for a little. So far nothing had been developed which offered a reasonable solution of the problem. And the problem for him was a different one from that which would confront the police. Trent’s problem was to secure the Takowaja emerald. So far neither of the Westwards had mentioned it. Probably for the reason that they did not know of its existence. It would be unwise, he decided, to try to lead them to talk of the dead man’s collection of jewels. But he felt reasonably certain in his own mind that in this carefully guarded house, replete with burglar alarms and safety appliances, the treasure from the Ural Mountains had been reposing within a dozen hours. The stranger who had come after a score of years and had left murder in his trail, was more likely to have come for the great green stone than anything else.
“I wish I could have a look at the place,” he said presently.
“Amateur detective?” laughed Mrs. Westward.
“I can’t imagine anything being more exciting,” he admitted, “than to follow this mysterious man except, perhaps, to be the man himself and outwit the detectives.”
“Why not take Mr. Trent up there, Charles?”
Plainly Mr. Westward was not eager to do so. This was due to a dislike to invade premises under police supervision to which he had no business except a friendly curiosity. Still there would be no harm done. He had known the Apthorpes for years and perhaps Anthony Trent might be an aid. Some one had told him Trent was an expert in the oil market. He had no reason to believe him anything but a man of probity.