“What happened?” asked Virginia.
“Hushed up,” said Superintendent Battle laconically. “Not a mention of it’s ever been made public to this day. We did all that could be done on the quiet—and that was a good deal more than you’d ever imagine, by the way. We’ve got methods of our own that would surprise. That jewel didn’t leave England with the queen of Herzoslovakia—I can tell you that much. No, Her Majesty hid it somewhere—but where we’ve never been able to discover. But I shouldn’t wonder”—Superintendent Battle let his eyes wander gently round—“if it wasn’t somewhere in this room.”
Anthony leapt to his feet.
“What? After all these years?” he cried incredulously. “Impossible.”
“You do not know the peculiar circumstances, Monsieur,” said the Frenchman quickly. “Only a fortnight later, the revolution in Herzoslovakia broke out, and the king and queen were murdered. Also, Captain O’Neill was arrested in Paris and sentenced on a minor charge. We hoped to find the packet of code letters in his house, but it appears that this had been stolen by some Herzoslovakian go-between. The man turned up in Herzoslovakia just before the revolution, and then disappeared completely.”
“He probably went abroad,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “To Africa as likely as not. And you bet he hung on to that packet. It was as good as a gold mine to him. It’s odd how things come about. They probably called him Dutch Pedro or something like that out there.”
He caught Superintendent Battle’s expressionless glance bent upon him, and smiled.
“It’s not really clairvoyance, Battle,” he said, “though it sounds like it. I’ll tell you presently.”
“There is one thing you have not explained,” said Virginia. “Where does this link up with the memoirs? There must be a link, surely?”
“Madame is very quick,” said Lemoine approvingly. “Yes, there is a link. Count Stylptitch was also staying at Chimneys at the time.”
“So that he might have known about it?”
“Parfaitement.”
“And, of course,” said Battle, “if he’s blurted it out in his precious memoirs, the fat will be in the fire. Especially after the way the whole thing was hushed up.”
Anthony lit a cigarette.
“There’s no possibility of there being a clue in the memoirs as to where the stone was hidden?” he asked.
“Very unlikely,” said Battle decisively. “He was never in with the queen—opposed the marriage tooth and nail. She’s not likely to have taken him into her confidence.”
“I wasn’t suggesting such a thing for a minute,” said Anthony. “But by all accounts he was a cunning old boy. Unknown to her, he may have discovered where she hid the jewel. In that case, what would he have done, do you think?”
“Sat tight,” said Battle, after a moment’s reflection.
“I agree,” said the Frenchman. “It was a ticklish moment, you see. To return the stone anonymously would have presented great difficulties. Also, the knowledge of its whereabouts would give him great power—and he liked power, that strange old man. Not only did he hold the queen in the hollow of his hand, but he had a powerful weapon to negotiate with at any time. It was not the only secret he possessed—oh, no!—he collected secrets like some men collect rare pieces of china. It is said that, once or twice before his death, he boasted to people of the things he could make public if the fancy took him. And once at least he declared that he intended to make some startling revelations in his memoirs. Hence”—the Frenchman smiled rather dryly—“the general anxiety to get hold of them. Our own secret police intended to seize them, but the Count took the precaution to have them conveyed away before his death.”
“Still, there’s no real reason to believe that he knew this particular secret,” said Battle.
“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony quietly. “There are his own words.”
“What?”
Both detectives stared at him as though unable to believe their ears.
“When Mr. McGrath gave me that manuscript to bring to England, he told me the circumstances of his one meeting with Count Stylptitch. It was in Paris. At some considerable risk to himself, Mr. McGrath rescued the Count from a band of Apaches. He was, I understand—shall we say a trifle—exhilarated? Being in that condition, he made two rather interesting remarks. One of them was to the effect that he knew where the Kho-i-Noor was—a statement to which my friend paid very little attention. He also said that the gang in question were King Victor’s men. Taken together, those two remarks are very significant.”
“Good Lord,” ejaculated Superintendent Battle, “I should say they were. Even the murder of Prince Michael wears a different aspect.”
“King Victor has never taken a life,” the Frenchman reminded him.
“Supposing he were surprised when he was searching for the jewel?”
“Is he in England, then?” asked Anthony sharply. “You say that he was released a few months ago. Didn’t you keep track of him?”
A rather rueful smile overspread the French detective’s face.
“We tried to, Monsieur. But he is a devil, that man. He gave us the slip at once—at once. We thought, of course, that he would make straight for England. But no. He went—where do you think?”
“Where?” said Anthony.
He was staring intently at the Frenchman, and absentmindedly his fingers played with a box of matches.
“To America. To the United States.”
“What?”
There was sheer amazement in Anthony’s tone.
“Yes, and what do you think he called himself? What part do you think he played over there? The part of Prince Nicholas of Herzoslovakia.”
The matchbox fell from Anthony’s hand, but his amazement was fully equalled by that of Battle.
“Impossible.”
“Not so, my friend. You, too, will get the news in the morning. It has been
