“You mustn’t be present at the inquiry, madame. It’s not a pleasant business. For me, it’s one of the risks we strolling entertainers run; but you would find it painful. Only, I beg you, for reasons which you will presently understand, to come back to us after they have questioned me.”
“I promise you I will.”
“I’m at your service, inspector.”
She went off with her four companions and the inspector of police. Saint-Quentin had the air of a condemned criminal being led to the gallows. Captain Montfaucon, his hands in his pockets, the string round his wrist, dragged along his baggage-wagon and whistled an American tune, like a gallant fellow who knows that all these little affairs always end well.
At the end of the courtyard, the last of the country folk were departing through the open gates, beside which the gamekeeper was posted. The showmen were grouped about their tents and in the orangery where the second policeman was examining their licenses.
On reaching her caravan, Dorothy perceived d’Estreicher talking to two servants.
“You then are the director of the inquiry, monsieur?” she said gayly.
“I am indeed, mademoiselle—in your interest,” he said in the same tone.
“Then I have no doubt about the result of it,” she said; and turning to the inspector, she added: “I have no keys to give you. Dorothy’s Circus has no locks. Everything is open to the world. Empty hands and empty pockets.”
The inspector seemed to have no great relish for the job. The two servants did their best and d’Estreicher made no bones about advising them.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said to the young girl, taking her on one side. “I’m of the opinion that no effort should be spared to make your complicity quite out of the question.”
“It’s a serious business,” she said ironically.
“In what way?”
“Well, recall our conversation. There’s a criminal: if it isn’t me, it’s you.”
D’Estreicher must have considered the young girl a formidable adversary, and he must have been frightened by her threats, for while he remained quite agreeable, gallant even, jesting with her, he was indefatigable in his investigation. At his bidding the servants lifted down the baskets and boxes, and displayed her wretched wardrobe, in the strongest contrast to the brilliantly colored handkerchiefs and shawls with which the young girl loved to adorn herself.
They found nothing.
They searched the walls and platform of the caravan, the mattresses, the harness of One-eyed Magpie, the sack of oats, and the food. Nothing.
They searched the four boys. A maid felt Dorothy’s clothes. The search was fruitless. The earrings were not to be found.
“And that?” said d’Estreicher, pointing to the huge basket loaded with pots and pans which hung under the vehicle.
With a furtive kick on the ankle Dorothy straightened Saint-Quentin who was tottering.
“Let’s bolt!” he stuttered.
“Don’t be a fool. The earrings are no longer there.”
“I may have made a mistake.”
“You’re an idiot. One doesn’t make a mistake in a case like that.”
“Then where is the cardboard box?”
“Have you got your eyes stuffed up?”
“You can see it, can you?”
“Of course I can see it—as plainly as the nose in the middle of your face.”
“In the caravan?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“On the ground ten yards away from you, between the legs of the bearded one.”
She glanced at the wagon of Captain Montfaucon which the child had abandoned to play with a doll, and the little packages from which, miniature bags and trunks and parcels, lay on the ground beside d’Estreicher’s heels.
One of these packages was nothing else than the cardboard box which contained the earrings. Captain Montfaucon had that afternoon added it to what he called his haulage material.
In confiding her unexpected discovery to Saint-Quentin, Dorothy, who did not suspect the keenness of the subtlety and power of observation of the man she was fighting, committed an irreparable imprudence. It was not on the young girl that d’Estreicher was keeping watch from behind the screen of his spectacles, but on her comrade Saint-Quentin whose distress and feebleness he had been quick to notice. Dorothy herself remained impassive. But would not Saint-Quentin end by giving some indication?
That was what happened. When he recognized the little box with the red gutta-percha ring round it, Saint-Quentin heaved a great sigh in his sudden relief. He told himself that it would never occur to anyone to untie these child’s toys which lay on the ground for any one to pick up. Several times, without the slightest suspicion, d’Estreicher had brushed them aside with his feet and stumbled over the wagon, winning from the Captain this sharp reprimand:
“Now then, sir! What would you say, if you had a car and I knocked it over?”
Saint-Quentin raised his head with a cheerful air. D’Estreicher followed the direction of his gaze and instinctively understood. The earrings were there, under the protection of Fortune and with the unwitting complicity of the captain. But in which of the packages? The cardboard box seemed to him to be the most likely. Without a word he bent quickly down and seized it. He drew himself up, opened it with a furtive movement, and perceived, among some small white pebbles and shells, the two sapphires.
He looked at Dorothy. She was very pale.
IV
The Cross-Examination
“Let’s bolt!” again said Saint-Quentin, who had sunk down on to a trunk and would have been incapable of making a single step.
“A splendid idea!” said Dorothy in a low voice. “Harness One-eyed Magpie; let’s all five of us hide ourselves in the caravan and hell for leather for the Belgian frontier!”
She gazed steadfastly at her enemy. She felt that she was beaten. With one word he could hand her over to justice, throw her into prison, and render vain all her threats. Of what value are the accusations of a thief?
Box in hand, he balanced himself on one foot then on the other with ironical satisfaction. He had the appearance of waiting for her to weaken and become a suppliant. How he misjudged her! On the contrary she maintained an attitude of
