“I can’t make it out—I’m bewildered utterly,” he said, when he had directed the coachman to drive to the Rue Bellarmine. “Sefton has behaved in the most extraordinary manner, refused point-blank to go with me to identify Ida’s brooch; that is, if I adhere to my resolve of driving to the Prefect of Police afterwards. He said the most outrageous things to me; claimed the brooch as his property; said that he would have no confounded fuss made over his wife’s diamonds.”
Clive’s remark on this was a short, sharp expression which, if Sefton had heard, he might have felt disposed to resent. Lord Culvers’s face grew more and more distressed as he went on with his story.
“It’s mystery upon mystery. I can’t think that Sefton altogether knew what he was saying; his face was flushed, his manner very excited. When I went in he had a newspaper in his hand, and he drew my attention to an advertisement which he said had appeared in several English and French journals, and asked me if I had had anything to do with its insertion. He’d teach people to meddle with his private affairs, he added. Such an extraordinary advertisement it was, ‘Sub signo et sub rosa,’ nothing more. My head is going round, Clive. Can you see a meaning in all this? I don’t like to say it, but the impression left on my mind is that Sefton had had a little more wine than was good for him, and did not quite know what he was saying.”
Then they had pulled up at the priest’s house in the Rue Bellarmine, and the task of identifying the brooch for the moment drove Sefton and his extraordinary conduct from their thoughts.
Father Baldwin did not keep them waiting. He entered the room brooch in hand.
“This is the exact condition in which it was when taken from the offertory bag,” he said as he handed it to Lord Culvers.
Lord Culvers took out his eyeglass and closely examined it. Then he started and turned a shade paler.
“Ida’s brooch, not a doubt. There is the emerald with the flaw in it; but it was not in this condition when she wore it last,” he said, as he passed it to Clive for inspection.
Clive saw at a glance that the brooch had been tampered with. The ruby eyes of the bird had disappeared; from its body here and there diamonds had been abstracted—abstracted, too, with a rough hand, and some, no doubt, rough-and-ready tool—assuredly not with the hand and the tool of a skilled jeweller. Also, sundry of the emeralds in the spray which the bird held in its beak, were missing, and the pin of the brooch was broken.
Questions addressed to the priest elicited no further information than that he had already given in his letter. He, however, strongly advised that the Commissaire of Police should at once be consulted on the matter.
There seemed to be no other course open to them now. So Lord Culvers, after writing his cheque for the promised reward and desiring Father Baldwin to pay it to the credit of any charity he pleased, ordered the voiturier to drive at once to the Palais de Justice.
XIV
Wearied and dispirited, Lord Culvers leaned his head upon his hand.
“It’s altogether too much, Clive,” he said. “I’m not a young man. I feel all to pieces. Life is a little too hard for me just now.”
They had returned from their interview with the Prefect of Police, and now sat in Clive’s sitting-room at his hotel, trying to “face the worst and act for the best.”
That interview had been a long and painful one, and the two men had come away from it fully convinced that they had acted the part of imbeciles in allowing a fortnight of precious time to slip away without making an effort to track the missing girl.
As a matter of course, in order to give full emphasis to the mystery of the recovered brooch, it had been necessary to relate to the Prefect the story of Ida’s marriage and subsequent disappearance; also, the full history of her engagement, together with the footing on which she had appeared to stand towards Captain Culvers, as stated by Juliet.
An interpreter, fortunately, had not been required, for although the Prefect had preferred to speak in his own tongue, he had a perfect knowledge of colloquial English.
Lord Culvers’s narrative, in all its minute detail, had been taken down in writing by an official, who, as a matter of course, was present.
On the disappearance of the young lady the Prefect had declined to express an opinion, stating that he could not possibly form one until he had given most careful thought to the case in all its bearings.
He had, however, said that in so serious a matter they could not afford to neglect any detail, however alight, and, therefore, he proposed at once instituting a search for the little organ-boy, of whom mention had been made. He had also proposed sending one of his officers to wait at the Italian restaurant that evening, in the hope that the promise of a supper would be inducement enough to take the little fellow there.
Here Clive had supplied a full and minute description of the boy.
Then they had come to the finding of the brooch in the offertory bag, and the damaged piece of jewellery was handed to the Prefect for his inspection.
Upon this, his questions had set in one direction and centered entirely upon Sefton Culvers, his past and his present career.
Lord Culvers, a little astonished, had done his best to answer these questions. Of, his nephew’s career during the past six or seven years he could give but little information. Captain Culvers had had a good deal of foreign service, had returned home with his health impaired about eighteen months back, and had thought it best to send in his papers to the Horse Guards. This was
