“Absolutely caught red-handed,” muttered the Colonel.
“But Gerry Long!” grunted Frank Wagnall. “I just can’t believe it, Colonel. Why, I’ve known the boy ail his life. It’s some silly practical joke; it must be.”
No one responded; no one felt like speaking.
The four men reached the library, and the private detective tapped on the door, which was opened by the Yard man to whom Mannering had been speaking earlier in the evening. He looked pleased with himself, and greeted Mannering cheerfully, but in an undertone.
“Rather a funny thing, eh, sir? Lucky you suggested checking up on the goods.”
Mannering grunted non-committally, and stared at Gerry Long. There was something about Long’s boyish face at the moment that made Mannering desperately sorry for him. Gerry looked as if he had had the biggest shock of his life. There was a smile on his face, but it was a set, almost stupid smile.
On a small table in front of him were the pearls.
For the fifth time in as many minutes Mannering felt the string in his own pocket. They were there all right, yet, if so, there were two lots of the same pearls, which was absurd. He checked the laugh that sprang to his lips, and scowled. This whole affair was bordering on the ridiculous, but it was also perilously close to a nightmare. Mannering hated the desperation in Long’s eyes.
Wagnall broke the silence that threatened to develop.
“This is a silly business, Gerry,” he said, and Mannering was glad that he sounded friendly enough. “What’s happened ? You must have some kind of explanation. Let’s have it, and clear the thing up.”
Long wearily pushed his hand through his light hair.
“I haven’t,” he said rather helplessly. “Only that I didn’t touch the pearls on the table.”
He broke off with a shrug of resignation, and for the life of him Mannering could not guess why. If ever a man looked guilty the young American did at that moment; yet . . .
“Then what the devil’s the meaning of these ?” began Wagnall, and then relapsed into silence. All the men present looked at one another awkwardly, and it was Mannering who moved first. He picked up the necklace and held it close to his eyes for a moment; then he rolled the stones in his fingers thoughtfully. He had guessed what they were, even though he still could not understand how Long had come by them. Bui at least, he told himself, he could ease the tension.
“They’re fakes,” he said quietly.
In the silence that followed a pin dropping would have made a clatter. Only Mannering was fully under control, and his lips were twitching. The next man to recover himself was the Yard detective.
“Fakes ?” His voice cracked. “Duds! But, hang it, Mr Mannering, the real stones are missing!”
“Possibly they had dummies made for the show,” said Mannering easily.
Wagnall and the Colonel shook their heads decisively.
“Never! It might have caused a scandal,” Wagnall assured him.
“All the same, these are dummies — culture-pearls at their best,” said Mannering, throwing the pearls into the air and catching them. “I’ll wager my opinion against anyone you care to bring, Mr Wagnall.”
He looked inquisitively at the American, who seemed
completely bewildered.
“But — but why the dummies?” Wagnall was staring at Gerry Long, who was still looking uncertain, and creating an impression that he knew something, that there was at least some truth in this accusation. “Tarnation, Gerry, say something! You didn’t come by these things by accident Where’d you get them?”
Wagnall’s voice had hardened, and his aggressive tone seemed to be the stimulant that Long wanted. The younger man’s eyes flashed, and he squared his shoulders, as though preparing for a physical effort.
“I don’t know where I got them,” he said slowly. “They were in my pocket; they must have been put there. . .”
The man from Dorman’s Agency laughed across the words.
“A fine story! With all respect to you, Mr Wagnall, it’s as plain as the nose on my face. Mr Long took the original pearls, hoping to slip the dummies in their place later.”
“When I’m needing your opinion,” said Wagnall coldly, “I’ll advise you.”
The man from Dorman’s dropped back a pace. Every expression went from his face, saving a mask-like smile.
“Very good, Mr Wagnall.”
“And that,” thought Mannering, “is a fair specimen of the private detective.” He tried to remember the name of the Yard man, who was still inspecting the pearls, looking as though he was thoroughly pleased with himself — a remarkable thing, now that the situation was fogged instead of clear.
Tring — Sergeant Tring, Mannering remembered, and he was glad to have even so small a thing to hold on to in this nightmare development.
Sergeant Jacob Tring, or Tanker, was thoroughly enjoying himself. The pearls were undoubtedly missing, the obvious suspect was Long, a friend of Wagnall’s, and the whole affair presented complications that would have made the average policeman savage; Tanker was accordingly happy.
“I’m thinking,” he said, after noting with malicious pleasure that the Dorman Agency man had been rapped over the knuckles, “that Mr Mannering’s correct, Mr Wagnall. These are dummies all right.”
