RETURNED!
“You are certain no one but yourself and Mr. Carling possesses a key to the safe, Sir Robert?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you think it impossible that anyone may have obtained either of the keys and had a duplicate made.”
“No copy has been made,” Sir Robert answered. “The pattern is unique, it could not be reproduced except by the makers, and I telephoned to them this morning. In any case they would not have made another key except from my personal instructions.”
“H’m.”
Snell, the detective, who had been summoned to Grosvenor Gardens on that eventful afternoon, stood thoughtfully sliding the secret panel to and fro.
“You are sure no one could have access to either of the existing keys—in the course of the night, or early this morning?”
“Quite sure. Carling declares that his was never out at his possession for an instant till he handed it to me just now, and I put it on the ring with my own.”
Sir Robert pulled the keys, attached to a strong steel chain, out of his trousers pocket, and slipped them back again.
“Just so. I’d like to have seen Mr. Carling, but of course he had to go; a man doesn’t get married every day. Where do you keep your own keys at night, Sir Robert?”
“Under my pillow. It is quite impossible that anyone can have obtained possession of them without my knowledge.”
“Yet the papers disappeared,” remarked the detective dryly. “Well, will you give me a description of them, Sir Robert? You say they were secret dispatches; were they in cipher?”
“One was; it was in French, and would be quite unintelligible to anyone who did not possess the key to the code used. Mr. Carling’s report on them both was also written in our private cipher, which only he and I understand.”
“Have you a key to that cipher?”
“Only in our heads; Carling invented it, and we memorized it.”
“How about the French code? Was that memorized also?”
“By ourselves, yes; at least we are so familiar with it that we never need to consult the code. It’s in the drawer of the safe.”
“That has not been stolen, then?”
“No. The theft of the French paper and of Carling’s report really does not matter much, for practically it would be impossible for any outside person to decipher them; but the other, which is by far the most important, was not in cipher, unfortunately.”
“What language was it in?”
“Russian.”
Snell glanced up quickly, as the thought flashed to his mind that Lady Rawson was herself said to be Russian by birth. Sir Robert did not meet his eyes. He appeared to be regarding an ivory paper-knife that he was fingering. His face was drawn and haggard; he seemed to have aged by ten years in the course of the last few hours, yet he was perfectly self-possessed.
“Whom do you suspect, Sir Robert?”
The blunt, point-blank question would have startled any ordinary man into an admission—even by an unguarded gesture—that he was concealing something. But Sir Robert Rawson’s face betrayed nothing, and he continued to play with the paper-knife as he replied:
“If I had any reason to suspect anyone, I should have told you at once, Mr. Snell. The whole affair is a mystery to me.”
“They were in the safe last night?”
“I cannot say. As a matter of fact, I meant to have dealt with them last night, but when we returned—Lady Rawson and I were at a dinner party—I felt extremely tired and went straight to bed. When I found the papers were missing this morning I was not especially alarmed at the moment; I imagined they had proved to be of little consequence, and that perhaps Carling had taken them with him to finish later. It was only when I rang him up on the telephone, and he came round, that I realized how serious the matter was, and even then I thought it possible that he might have merely mislaid them.”
“Who besides yourself and Mr. Carling knew of the existence and importance of the papers, and that they were in the house?”
“Not a soul!” Sir Robert’s tone was absolutely emphatic.
“Not to your knowledge perhaps, Sir Robert; but someone must certainly have known. Did anyone come into the room while Mr. Carling was engaged on them last night?”
“No one at all after I left.”
“He told you so?”
“Yes, and Thomson, my confidential servant, confirmed that.”
“Does Thomson know of the loss of the papers?”
“Yes. He is the only one of the servants who does know at present, though the others were questioned—all who were in and out of the room either last night or this morning. Although Carling was positive he placed the papers in the safe, I thought it possible he might have been mistaken, and that he left them on the table.”
“Has he ever made such a mistake before?”
The ghost of a smile flitted across Sir Robert’s stern face.
“No, but there would have been considerable excuse if he had been guilty of such carelessness last night. However, he declares that he did put them away, in the same envelope in which they were sent to me—an official one, printed with my name and address. He sealed it.”
“About the servants. Are there any foreigners among them?”
“Two only, I believe, both French: the chef and Lady Rawson’s maid.”
“I will see them all in turn, beginning with Thomson. May I ring?”
He put one or two questions to the footman who answered the summons before sending him in search of the valet.
“Who was on duty in the hall last night?”
“I was, sir—till ten, when I went to supper.”
“Were there any callers?”
“No, sir.”
“Mr. Carling was in this room the whole time?”
“I suppose so, sir. I never saw him come out.”
“Did anyone enter the room while Mr. Carling was there?”
“No, sir, only Sir Robert and my lady.”
“Who relieved you when you went off duty?”
“Mr. Thomson was in the hall, sir; he was going to wait up for Sir Robert and my lady. Mr. Jenkins, the butler, and some of the others had the evening off, as the family dined out.”
“Just so. Will you send Mr. Thomson here?”
In the interval Snell turned to Sir Robert, who had evinced no special interest in the brief colloquy; doubtless he had questioned the man to the same purpose already.
“I suppose Lady Rawson is already aware of the loss of these papers, Sir Robert?”
The query was uttered lightly, as if it was of no importance or significance, but was accompanied by a keen glance at Sir Robert’s harassed yet inscrutable face—a glance which again the financier did not meet. He laid down the paper-knife before he answered, in a tone as apparently careless as the detective’s had been.
“No. I should have told her, of course, when we came to the conclusion that they were really lost, but she had already gone out. I was to have joined her after lunch, and gone on to Carling’s wedding. She will be there now,” he added, glancing at the clock on his writing-table.
Snell’s eyes glistened. (“Lady Rawson’s in this, right enough,” he told himself confidently. “And he knows it. He only sent for me as a bit of bluff!”)
Thomson entered, and advanced towards his master, ignoring the presence of a second person. At that moment the telephone on the writing-table tinkled, and Thomson stood still, silent and deferential as usual, as, mechanically, Sir Robert took down the receiver.
“Yes? Yes, I am Sir Robert Rawson. Who is speaking?... Oh!... What’s that?... What?”
The two who were watching him, more or less furtively, were startled, for he dropped the receiver, stumbled to his feet, and glared round helplessly, a dusky flush rising to his face, which was horribly distorted.
Thomson was by his side in an instant, thrusting a supporting arm around him, but Snell sprang forward, seized the receiver and spoke imperatively into the telephone.
“Who is there?... Yes, Sir Robert Rawson was speaking a moment ago, but he has been taken ill.”
He glanced at the group close by. Sir Robert had fallen, or been lowered by Thomson to the floor, and the valet was rapidly unloosening his collar.
“Who are you?... Oh, it’s you, Evans. Western Division. Yes, I’m John Snell of Scotland Yard.... Well, what is it? Lady Rawson murdered! Had she any papers in her possession?... What? Right. I’ll be with you as soon as possible. Ring off.”
“Master, master!” Thomson was stammering. “He’s dying!”
Snell pressed the electric bell, and hurried to meet the footman.
“Sir Robert is taken ill; he’s had bad news. Lady Rawson has been murdered. Better telephone for a doctor and fetch the housekeeper.”
Two minutes later he was speeding westward in a taxi, eager to investigate this sudden and tragic development of the case, for he assumed instantly that the murder was the outcome of the theft of the papers.
At the house in Grosvenor Gardens confusion reigned for a time. The only one among the flurried servants who kept a clear head at this crisis was the imperturbable Thomson, who, after the unwonted outburst of emotion that escaped him as he knelt beside his stricken master, resumed his habitual composure, and promptly took charge of the situation as it affected Sir Robert himself. For the time being he practically ignored the news of the murder, which the others, naturally enough, began discussing with awestruck excitement. Now, as ever, his one thought was his master, and with deft tenderness he did what he thought best—loosening the sufferer’s clothes and raising his head. When the doctor arrived Thomson proved an invaluable assistant in every way.
“Will he recover, sir?” he asked, with poignant anxiety, when at length they quitted the room to which Sir Robert had been carried, leaving him still unconscious, but breathing more naturally, and with a trained nurse already in attendance.
“Yes, yes, I hope so; but it was an overwhelming shock, of course. Is this terrible news about Lady Rawson true? It seems incredible.”
Thomson passed his hand over his forehead dazedly.
“I suppose it is, sir. I haven’t seemed to have time to think about it. It’s a terrible upset, and Mr. Carling away and all. There’s Lord Warrington. Excuse me, sir. I’d better speak to him.”
There were several people in the hall, including a couple of energetic reporters who had managed to enter and were endeavouring to interrogate the worried butler and anyone else whom they could buttonhole, for the news had spread like wildfire, and outside a crowd had assembled, watching and waiting for the grim homecoming of the woman who had left that house but a few hours before in the full vigour of youth and beauty.
Thomson approached a short, spare, but authoritative-looking man, who had just been admitted, and before whom the others gave way respectfully—Lord Warrington of the Foreign Office.
“Will you come in here, my lord?” he said, and ushered him into the library.
The same young footman whom Snell had questioned hurried forward and detained Thomson for a moment, extending a salver with a heap of letters.
“These have just come by post, Mr. Thomson. Hadn’t you better take them?”
Thomson did so mechanically, and followed Lord Warrington, who turned to him the instant the door was closed.
“This is an awful business, Thomson! Where’s Sir Robert?”
“In bed, and at death’s door, my lord. They telephoned the news to him about my lady, and he had a kind of stroke.”
“Good Heavens! But what does it all mean, man? What was Lady Rawson doing out there in the suburbs—and murdered in a post office telephone booth, of all places in the world!”
He waved an evening paper he was carrying, and Thomson glanced at it dully.
“I don’t know anything about it, my lord, except just that my lady was murdered. The Scotland Yard detective told me that, but I didn’t seem to grasp it at the time; I was too distressed about my master, and I’ve been with him ever since.”
“A detective? Did he bring the news?”
“Oh, no, my lord, it was through the telephone. He was here about those papers that are missing——”
“Papers? What papers?”
“Some that arrived by special messenger yesterday, my lord.”
Warrington stared aghast.
“Those! He told me about them at dinner. Missing! D’you mean they’re lost? Stolen?”
“I thought perhaps you knew, my lord. Mr. Carling put them in the safe last night—or said he did—and this morning they were gone. Sir Robert was very put out, and so was Mr. Carling.”
“Gone! Good Lord! I wonder what was in them and who’s got hold of them?” muttered Lord Warrington in utter consternation. His glance lighted on the letters that Thomson held.
“What have you got there?”
Thomson looked at them with a preoccupied air.
“Only some letters, my lord, just come. I don’t know what to do with them, as Mr. Carling’s away.”
“Here, give ’em to me—that one anyhow.”
“That one” was a big, bulky, blue envelope, printed with Sir Robert’s name and address, and showing also the district postmark and a big official stamp indicative of the surcharge for an unpaid letter.
“Where the dickens is Broadway?” Warrington muttered, as he scrutinized it. “Look here, Thomson, I’m going to open this. Why the seal’s broken already!”
“Very good, my lord,” Thomson murmured deferentially but abstractedly. Yet he looked up with quickened interest as Lord Warrington uttered an involuntary exclamation.
“My lord! They—they’re not those very papers?”
“They are! By Jove, that’s the queerest thing I’ve ever known! Now, who the deuce has found and returned them?”