E. Phillips Oppenheim - Crime & Mystery Collection - 110+ Thrillers & Detective Tales in One Volume (Illustrated Edition)

There was a short silence.

“I won’t waste your time, Miss Followay, asking useless questions,” Goade observed. “You believe that Lord Geoffrey took it?”

“What else can I believe?” she asked. “It was he who insisted upon the scarf, which was really unnecessary. He was a long time drawing it away, talking in a rather bewildering manner all the time. He went off directly we entered the ballroom— and the emerald was gone.”

“You spoke to him about it, I suppose?”

“I did, as soon as I could find him, but, though I looked for him everywhere, he seemed to become invisible for at least an hour. No one seemed to know where he was. When at last I discovered him, he was in the room where wine and refreshments were being served, sitting alone. I went up to him at once and told him that my emerald was gone. I had already searched the terrace thoroughly where we had been sitting, but he insisted upon going back there again. I suggested that he should look in the scarf, and he went and fetched it, but there was nothing there. He seemed very distressed, and he promised me that he would do everything he could, but he begged me not to make too much fuss at the time, as the Duchess, who is very old-fashioned, detests anything of that sort.”

“The Duchess,” the Dean explained, “belongs to the old-fashioned school. The idea of a jewel robbery in her house would have filled her with horror. It is quite certain that my daughter would never have been invited there again if we had put the matter in the hands of the police in the usual way.”

“She was told, I suppose?” Goade asked.

“Naturally. Florence mentioned it as casually as possible before leaving the next morning. Even then the Duchess seems to have been very cold about it.”

“I tried to explain that it was valuable,” Florence interposed, “but she simply said that, if it had been dropped when dancing, the servants would find it and it would be returned. If they did not find it, I would probably discover it amongst my belongings when I returned home.”

“I know nothing about the family,” Goade admitted. “Are they wealthy?”

“Sufficiently so, I believe,” the Dean replied, “but, with the present iniquitous system of taxation, no member of the old peerage or the landed gentry can be described as being wealthy. However, I imagine that the Exeters are well enough off even for their position.”

“And this young man, Lord Geoffrey?”

“From all that one hears, one would consider him a remarkably well-conducted young man for his position in life,” the Dean replied. “He is the eldest son, and represents the Southern District of the County in Parliament. He is spoken of as a very promising young politician.”

“Any private means?”

“So far as I know, none, except his allowance from his father, which is, however, no doubt adequate.”

Goade reflected for a moment. Suddenly he looked across at the young lady.

“And now tell me the rest of the story,” he suggested pleasantly.

She started, visibly perturbed. A little flush of colour came into her cheeks.

“What do you mean —the rest of the story?” she demanded.

“You are keeping something back,” Goade complained. “Nearly every one does. It is such waste of time if they really require help.”

She remained silent for several moments.

“Well, there is only this,” she admitted at last: “I met Lord Geoffrey when I was staying in London with my godmother before she died. He became quite attentive to me. It was through him, I am sure, that I was asked to Exeter Park. Since that night, however, he has not called or been near me. He was not there to say good-bye when I left in the morning. He seems deliberately to have avoided me. I couldn’t help telling him about my loss, especially as he was with me when it happened. He seemed, however, to resent it.”

“A little unreasonable on his part,” Goade commented.

“Decidedly unsportsmanlike,” Faulkener murmured.

“The point is, however,” the Dean confided, “that the young man is expected here this afternoon for tea. He was lunching with the Bishop to-day, where my wife was also a guest, and she invited him. He accepted after some hesitation, I understand.”

“I should rather like an opportunity of seeing him,” Goade acknowledged.

“That opportunity will be forthcoming,” the Dean said.

“And in the meantime, Miss Followay,” Goade enquired, “which would you prefer—the return of your jewel or the exposure of the thief?”

She hesitated.

“I should like my jewel back, of course,” she admitted. “I should like also to make the thief confess.”

The butler threw open the door.

“Tea is served in the drawing-room, sir,” he announced.

“You will join us, I trust, Mr. Goade?” the Dean invited. “You will then have an opportunity of meeting this young man.”

They crossed the hall and entered a very pleasant drawing-room; with French windows leading out on to the lawn of the Close. Goade was presented to Mrs. Followay, a handsome but tired-looking replica of her daughter, to a clergyman and his wife, and to Lord Geoffrey Fernell. The latter was a young man, tall and thin, with a slightly studious air and a reserved manner. He conversed very little with any one. Even when Florence went over and sat by his side he seemed to unbend very slightly. He discussed a recent session in the House of Convocation with the visiting clergyman, and exchanged a few words with the Dean upon a Bill which he had supported dealing with some ecclesiastical matter. His manner, however, was marked all the time with a certain aloofness. He was the first to leave, and after he had gone Mrs. Followay sighed.

“I can’t think what’s happened to Lord Geoffrey,” she declared in a melancholy tone. “It almost seems as though you had offended him, Florence.”

Florence set down her cup and turned towards the door. It appeared to Goade, who opened it for her, that there were tears in her eyes. He heard her run up the stairs, and she waved him a little adieu with one hand, her handkerchief in the other…

“A nice girl,” Faulkener remarked, as the two men strolled across the Close towards the club.

“Very nice indeed,” Goade assented. “I like her better than the young man.”

“I think she’s got hold of a mare’s nest, all the same. The idea of a man in Lord Geoffrey’s position robbing a girl for the sake of a trifle like that isn’t credible. What do you think, honestly, Goade?”

“I agree with you.”

“That’s what makes the whole thing so difficult. The Followays want to recover the emerald, naturally. On the other hand, they’ve already irritated the young man, and they’re deadly afraid of upsetting the rest of the family. You see, they absolutely dominate Society down here, and old Followay’s got three other daughters coming on. That’s why he was so anxious to have a word with you. He daren’t come to us officially. He doesn’t want to offend the Exeters, but he does want his emerald. There you are, Goade. It’s up to you.”

“Thanks,” Goade remarked drily. “Looks so easy, doesn’t it?”

GOADE spent a lazy few days in the meadows and around the quiet countryside adjoining the city. He bought a fishing rod and took lessons with some success from a piscatorial expert. He also painted assiduously for several afternoons. On the fourth morning he received a budget of communications by the midday post. He went through them, whistling softly to himself. Presently he rang up Faulkener, who appeared without undue delay. They strolled into the coffee room for lunch.

“Well, my friend,” the Chief Constable enquired, “how is the great work proceeding?”

“Somewhat unexpectedly, to tell you the truth,” Goade confessed. “I know all about Lord Geoffrey Fernell. Apparently—and I have every confidence in my dossier—there are few better conducted young men in this world. His chambers—in the unfashionable Adelphi, by the way—are looked after by old retainers of the family—a man and a woman of unblemished respectability. His life is one which would pass the censor in every respect. He is assiduous in his attendance at the House, and a valued member of various committees. He is also on the Boards of two hospitals, one charitable institution, and one perfectly sound commercial undertaking. The young man, as you see, therefore has interests. He attends the theatre, but he eschews musical comedy. He is a strenuous golfer, an occasional polo-player, although this season I understand that he has taken to tennis instead. His friends are all of a highly superior class. He has no entanglements, and, so far as one can gather, no extravagances. The Duke of Exeter should be congratulated. He has apparently—so far as this dossier goes—a perfect son. There will be a perfect hereditary legislator to follow in his footsteps.”