Meet The Baron

visit. He was worried about Long, and it was possible that he could clear the situation after a talk with Bristow.

Bristow was his usual cheerful self, and Sergeant Tring, looking rather pleased with life, touched his forehead and hoped that Mannering wasn’t feeling tired after the previous day’s exertions.

“No,” said Mannering, “and I’ve never seen anyone exert himself less than you do. Why didn’t you order the doors to be shut?”

“Too late when we discovered the stuff missing,” said Tring briefly.

When the sergeant had gone, closing the door quietly behind him, the detective offered cigarettes, and smiled grimly.

“We didn’t have much luck on our first job together,” he said, as Mannering struck a match.

Mannering laughed, a little uncertainly.

“You seem confoundedly happy about it,” he countered.

Bristow shrugged. Mannering gained another insight into the character of the man whom he was rapidly beginning to like and to admire.

“There isn’t much use in getting all het-up,” said the detective. “It doesn’t help us, nor anyone else. Besides, we always get our man in the long run.”

“Always ?” Mannering’s brows went up.

“Ninety-nine times in a hundred, anyhow,” said Bristow cheerfully.

“That suggests,” Mannering said slowly, “that you believe last night’s job was another one from your man — the Baron?”

Bristow nodded, and the other noticed the glint of admiration in the detective’s eyes. Bristow was so used to finding herself dealing with men of very moderate intellect that it was a pleasure to talk with someone who grasped the essentials quickly.

“I mean just that,” he said. “I think Baron — or the Baron; call him what you like — did the job. The dummies were slipped into Long’s pocket to make him seem . . .”

“Guilty?” asked Mannering.

“Well, to give that impression at first sight,” said Bristow. “You don’t have to look far before you realise Long was there for the other man to hang a hat on. While Tring and the others were worrying about the American, off goes the real thief.”

“A servant or a guest?”

Bristow rubbed his chin. He looked at Mannering thought-fully, as though wondering just how far he could trust his amateur helper. Apparently his decision was favourable.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not really sure, of course. But there’s one guest who’s being watched very carefully, Mannering, and whose bank-balance might not be quite so high as we think.”

Mannering felt just the same fear as he had when he had been with Gerry Long. This time he managed to control himself, and he did not change colour; but he took another cigarette from his case and stuck it between his lips, glad of the cover it gave. It was disconcerting to be faced with a statement like that, and he did not enjoy it. His heart was beating fast, and several seconds passed before he spoke.

“Yes ?” he said, and he was surprised that his voice sounded natural.

“Yes,” said Bristow heavily. “It seems fantastic, of course, but have you noticed, Mannering, that Lady Kenton has been present at every robbery ?”

“Lady Kenton ?”

Mannering stared at his man, completely dumbfounded; there was no need at all for the simulation of surprise; Long, then Bristow, with the same fantastic notion!

“Look at it through plain glasses,” said Bristow, a little disgruntled by Mannering’s obvious astonishment, “and you can see what I mean, can’t you? There was that paltry brooch. She worried the life out of me about the thing, and it doesn’t need a very long stretch of imagination to believe that she did it to keep me worrying about her as a victim. And she has been at every robbery.”

Mannering took a deep breath, and forced himself to make the obvious rejoinder.

“So have I,” he said.

Bristow grinned.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I’m not forgetting you, but I’m hoping for the best. Seriously, though, why did she fall on that table last night? Did you see anything in the way for her to stumble over?”

Mannering shook his head. There was more relish in these conversations with the detective than in anything else he could remember, and he was beginning to enjoy himself thoroughly.

“There you are,” said Bristow triumphantly. “She says that she doesn’t know what caused her to slip, but she knows that something was in her way. Well — it’s a tall story.”

Mannering remembered, very vividly, how he had stretched his foot for the Countess to fall over.

“It is,” he admitted. “But, damn it, Bristow — the Dowager Countess of Kenton . . .”

“Why not?” demanded Bristow, with vigour. “There’s another thing, Mannering. That necklace, according to reports, was worth about five thousand pounds. Now, Lady Kenton hardly knew Marie Overndon. True, she knew the Wagnalls in America; but a five-thousand-pound wedding-gift!”

“That had occurred to me,” said Mannering, very serious-