At that moment the voice of the Princess hailed her from the foot of the stairs, and further conversation became impossible.
Leslie arrived at Scotland Yard just before twelve, and was mounting the stone stairs as Peter Dawlish came down.
“A clean bill,” he said with a smile. “At any rate, that is the impression Coldwell gives me. It seems that your detective man’s search was a very thorough one. I suppose you know that he searched me also? And, by the way, Belinda sends her love.”
“Belinda?” Leslie was momentarily bewildered. “Oh, you mean the little child, Elizabeth. How wicked! I had almost forgotten her!”
“She hasn’t forgotten you,” laughed Peter, and with a cheery wave of his hand went on.
She found Mr. Coldwell in his big, comfortable office, the stub of a cigar between his teeth, his bristling brows gathered in thought.
“Just going to phone you,” he grumbled. “I’ve seen that man of yours, and I’m satisfied that he had nothing to do with the crime.”
“ ‘That man of mine’ being Peter Dawlish?” she said calmly. “You give me quite a proprietorial feeling.”
From her bag she took the statement that Lady Raytham had signed and laid it on the table before him. He read it through carefully, folded it up, and slipped it into a drawer.
“Did you tell Anita Bellini about the emerald we found in Druze’s hand?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “That’s the last thing in the world I should have told her. I asked Lady Raytham not to tell either. Why?”
He smiled grimly.
“Thought you hadn’t,” he said. “Her Serenity called me on the phone five minutes ago, and said she’d read in one of the newspapers that something very valuable had been found on Druze’s person. I haven’t seen all the newspapers, but those I’ve read make no mention of the emerald, and I don’t see why they should, unless they are psychic. The Princess suggested, rather than said, that you had confirmed this mythical newspaper report.”
Leslie shook her head in admiration.
“That woman is certainly a quick worker,” she said. “What did you tell her?”
Mr. Coldwell relit his cigar with the exasperating deliberation of his age.
“I told her that we had found something valuable—a packet of money. She seemed kind of disappointed.”
The telephone bell shrilled; he picked up the receiver, listened in silence for a time, and then:
“All right, I’ll come down,” he said.
“The Lambeth police have got a quaint clue; a kind of ready-made one, but it should be investigated, as it has to do with your Peter. Would you like to come along?”
She looked at him steadily.
“If you refer to him as my Peter again, I shall be very offensive to you, Mr. Coldwell,” she said, and Coldwell scratched his chin.
“Somehow he seems to belong to you; I don’t know why I get that impression.”
Her eyes wandered to a corner of the room, and for the first time she saw the two big travelling trunks. They were new and bore the label of the Cunard Steamship Company.
“Druze’s,” he said laconically. “We’ll go through those when we come back.”
It was at the corner of Severall Street that the taxicab stopped. The local sub-divisional inspector was waiting, and with him a detective.
“Let me have a look at that paper,” said Coldwell immediately, and Leslie, who had not heard the one-sided conversation on the telephone, wondered what was coming next.
The inspector took a dirty slip of paper from his pocketbook and gave it into Coldwell’s hand. He fixed his glasses and read, then passed the slip to the girl. The message was written in pencil and in an illiterate hand.
“Dawlish keeps his gun under a loose board in his bedroom just as you go inside the door.”
“Where did this come from?” asked Coldwell.
“It was delivered at the station just before I telephoned to you. A street lad brought it along; he said it had been handed to him by a man, who gave him a few coppers for his trouble. I thought it best that you should know.”
They walked down the street towards Mrs. Inglethorne’s house, and the door was opened immediately by that lady, who was surprisingly clean and spruce. She seemed surprised, but was certainly not agitated by the appearance of the police officers.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dawlish has just come in. Shall I call him down?”
“No, thank you; we’ll go up.”
Coldwell mounted the stairs and knocked at the door of the front room, and a voice bade them come in. Over the inspector’s shoulder, Leslie saw that Peter was sitting at a deal table, pen in hand, a stack of addressed envelopes before him. He shifted his chair round, and his eyebrows rose in astonishment.
“Hullo!” he said, obviously taken aback by the character of the call. “Do you want to see me again, inspector?”
Coldwell took in the room with a glance.
“I have information that you’ve a gun concealed under this floor,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll make another search.”
“Fire ahead,” said Peter, without a moment’s hesitation.
Coldwell turned back to the door, lifted a corner of the faded carpet, and saw the loose board immediately. To lift it up was the work of a second. Thrusting in his hand, he pulled out a long black Browning pistol. Peter’s face went white; his jaw dropped in an amazement that could not have been simulated.
“Anything more here?” asked Coldwell, and, kneeling, thrust in his hand and groped about. Presently he found a small package wrapped in cloth and brought it to the light. He unwrapped it slowly.
“My Gawd!” gasped a hollow voice.
Mrs. Inglethorne had crept up the stairs and was an interested spectator. And if her profanity was inexcusable, there was reason enough for her astonishment, for in the centre of that dirty rag lay three large diamond rings, the least valuable of which must have been worth a hundred pounds.
“Do you know anything about these, Dawlish?”
Peter shook his head.
“No; I’m not a
