“Come on, you fellows! He’s got away. Lend hand to chase him.”
And a sound of running steps filled the hall, as the male guests poured out in answer to the summons.
“You don’t need me any longer, Joan?” Michael questioned. “Right! Then I’m off to lend a hand.”
He ran to join the rest.
Left alone, Joan retraced her steps to the ballroom; but instead of reentering it, she passed on in the direction of the museum, whither a number of the guests were making their way also.
“I hope nobody’s got badly hurt,” she thought to herself as she hurried along. “I do wish I’d taken the hint and not asked to have that collection thrown open tonight.”
Much to her relief, she found Sir Clinton sitting on a chair beside the museum door. In the doorway stood the keeper, looking none the worse and busying himself with fending off the more inquisitive among the guests who wished to enter the room. Joan noticed that the museum itself was in darkness though the lights were burning in the rest of the house.
“You’re not hurt, are you, Sir Clinton?” she asked as she came up to him.
“Nothing to speak of. The fellow kicked me on the ankle as he came out. I’m temporarily lamed, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, I think.”
He rubbed his ankle as he spoke.
“Are you all right, Mold?” Joan inquired.
The keeper reassured her.
“No harm done, Miss Joan. They didn’t hurt me. But I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t manage to get hold of them. They were on me before I could do anything, me being so taken aback by the lights going out.”
“What’s happened?” Joan questioned Sir Clinton. “Has anything been stolen?”
“We don’t know yet what’s gone,” he replied, answering her last question first. “The bulk of the lamp’s smashed in there”—he nodded towards the museum—“and until they bring a fresh one, we can’t find out what damage has been done. As to what happened, it seems rather confused at present; but I expect we shall get it cleared up eventually. There seems to have been a gang at work; and I’m afraid some things may be missing when we begin to look over the collection.”
“I wish I’d taken your hint,” Joan admitted, frankly. “It’s partly my blame, I feel, for neglecting your advice. I was silly to laugh at you when you spoke about it.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you, Joan,” Sir Clinton reassured her. “It was really only one chance in a million that anything of the sort would happen tonight. Besides, if we manage to nail this fellow that they’re all after, we may be able to get some clue to his confederates. Quite evidently there was a gang at work, and he may be induced to split on his friends if we can lay hands on him; and then we’ll get the stuff back again without much trouble, I hope.”
He glanced at her, as though to see the effect of his words; then, as his eyes caught her mask, he seemed struck by another idea.
“That reminds me,” he said, “we must get these masks off. Send someone round at once, please, Joan, to order everyone to unmask now. And have all the outer doors shut, too. It’s a futile precaution, I’m afraid; because anyone could slip out during the confusion when there was no light: but we may as well do what we can even at this stage.”
He removed his own mask as he spoke, and pulled away the false beard which he had worn as Prospero. Joan loosened her mask and went off to give the necessary orders. In a few moments she returned.
“Now tell me what did happen,” she demanded.
“There’s no one killed, or even hurt,” Sir Clinton assured her. “This ankle of mine’s the only casualty, so far as I know; and I expect I’ll be able to limp about quite comfortably by tomorrow.”
“I’m thankful it’s no worse,” said Joan, with relief.
“All I know about the business comes from Mold, here,” Sir Clinton went on. “It seems he was patrolling the museum at the time the thing happened, under your brother’s orders. Perhaps half a dozen people—under a dozen, he says, at any rate—were in the place then. Some of them were examining the cases in the bays; some of them were looking at the things in the big centre case. Mold doesn’t remember what costumes they were wearing. I don’t blame him. People had been passing in and out all through the evening; and there was no reason why he should take particular note of the guests at that special moment.”
Sir Clinton glanced up at the keeper, who was looking rather ashamed at his inability to furnish better information.
“Don’t you worry, Mold. I doubt if I’d have had any more to tell, myself, if I’d been there. One can’t be expected to remember everything.”
He turned back to Joan.
“The next thing that happened was a pistol-shot, and the light went out. Some light filtered in from the door of the room, for the lamps in the hall here were still blazing; but before Mold could do anything, someone gripped him from behind and got his wrists twisted behind his back. In the struggle Mold was swung round, so that he couldn’t see the central case even in what light there was. Then the lights outside were switched off and he heard a smashing of glass. There was a bit of a struggle, apparently; and then all at once he felt himself let loose. As soon as he got free, he lit a match and posted himself at the door to prevent anyone getting away; and he stayed there until the lights went on again. Then he made all his prisoners unmask and those whom he didn’t recognize himself he kept there until someone he knew came to identify them. They’re all people you know quite well, Joan. More than half of
