“It was not a question of family,” he said. “I had no idea as to its ownership, only some person had been very careless—I found the necklace outside the safe. Some property had evidently been hidden in a hurry, and had fallen down.”
“I am greatly obliged to you,” said Wallis. “You removed what might possibly have been a great temptation for the honest Mr. Timmings.”
He took a key from his pocket, switched round the combination lock, and opened the safe. There was nothing in the first view to suggest that it was the storehouse of the most notorious thief in London. Every article therein had been most carefully wrapped and packed. He closed the door again.
“That is only half the treasure,” he said.
“Only half—what do you mean?”
Gilbert was genuinely surprised, and a little mocking smile played about the mouth of the other.
“I thought that would upset you,” he said. “That is only half. I will show you something. Since you know so much, why shouldn’t you know all?”
He walked back into the office. A door led into another room. He unlocked this, and opening it passed through, Gilbert following. Inside was a small room lit by a skylight. The centre of the room was occupied by what appeared to be a large cage. It was in reality a steel grill, which is sometimes sold by French firms to surround a safe.
“A pretty cage,” said Mr. Wallis admiringly.
He unlocked the tiny steel gate and stepped through, and Gilbert stepped after him.
“How did you get it in?” asked Gilbert curiously.
“It was brought in in pieces, and has just been set up in order to show a customer. It is very easily taken apart, and two or three mechanics can clear it away in a day.”
“Is this your other department?” asked Gilbert dryly.
“In a sense it is,” said Wallis, “and I will show you why. If you go to the corner and pull down the first bar you will see something which perhaps you have never seen before.”
Gilbert was halfway to the corner, when the transparency of the trick struck him. He turned quickly, but a revolver was pointed straight at his heart.
“Put up your hands, Mr. Gilbert Standerton,” said George. “You may be perfectly bona fide in your intentions to share out, but I was thinking that I would rather finish tonight’s job before I relinquish business. You see, it will be poetic justice. Your uncle—”
“My uncle!” said Gilbert.
“Your uncle,” bowed the other, “an admirable but testy old gentleman, who in one of our best safes has deposited nearly a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of jewellery, the famous Standerton diamonds, which I suppose you will one day inherit.”
“Is it not poetic justice,” he asked as he backed his way out, still covering his prisoner with his revolver, “to rob you just a little? Possibly,” he went on, with grim humour, “I also may have a conscience, and may attempt to restore to you the property which tonight I shall steal.”
He clanged the gate to, doubly locked it, and walked to the door which led to the office.
“You will stay here for forty-eight hours,” he said, “at the end of which time you will be released—on my word. It may be inconvenient for you, but there are many inconvenient happenings in this life which we must endure. I commend you to Providence.”
He went out, and was gone for a quarter of an hour.
Gilbert thought he had left, but he returned carrying a large jug of coffee, two brand new quart vacuum flasks, and two packages of what proved to be sandwiches.
“I cannot starve you,” he said. “You had better keep your coffee hot. You will have a long wait, and as you may be cold I have brought this.”
He went back to the office and carried out two heavy overcoats and thrust them through the bars.
“That is very decent of you,” said Gilbert.
“Not at all,” said the polite Mr. Wallis.
Gilbert was unarmed, and had he possessed a weapon it would have been of no service to him.
The pistol had not left Wallis’s hand, and even as he handed the food through the grill the butt of the automatic Colt was still gripped in his palm.
“I wish you a very good evening. If you would like to send a perfectly noncommittal note to your wife, saying that you were too busy to come back, I should be delighted to see it delivered.”
He passed through the bars a sheet of paper and a stylograph pen. It was a thoughtful thing to do, and Gilbert appreciated it.
This man, scoundrel as he was, had nicer instincts than many who had never brought themselves within the pale of the law.
He scribbled a note excusing himself, folded up the sheet and placed it in the envelope, sealing it down before he realised that his captor would want to read it.
“I am very sorry,” he said, “but you can open it, the gum is still wet.”
Wallis shook his head.
“If you will tell me that there is nothing more than I asked you to write, or than I expected you to write, that is sufficient,” he said.
So he left Gilbert alone and with much to think about.
XIII
The Maker of Wills
General Sir John Standerton was a man of hateful and irascible temper. The excuse was urged for him that he had spent the greater portion of his life in India, a country calculated to undermine the sweetest disposition. He was a bachelor and lived alone, save for a small army of servants. He had renamed the country mansion he had purchased twenty years before: it was now known from one end of the country to the other as The Residency, and here he maintained an almost feudal state.
His enemies said that he kept his battalion of servants at full strength so that he might always have somebody handy to swear at, but that was obviously spite. It was said, too, that
