The Prefect had laid stress upon Captain Culvers’s resignation of his commission, and had asked if no other reason than enfeebled health could be assigned for it.
Lord Culvers had replied that if any other reason existed he did not know of it. He had surmised, and knew now for certain, that his nephew was heavily in debt; but, so far as he was aware, there had never been a whisper against his private character.
Then had succeeded a number of questions as to Captain Culvers’s doings in Paris at the present moment, and the attitude he had assumed since the disappearance of his wife. Upon this there had followed the description of Sefton’s present surroundings and most likely associates, together with the account of Lord Culvers’s interview with him that morning, the young man’s extraordinary manner, the excitement he had shown over a chance advertisement, and, finally, his peremptory wish that the attention of the police should not be drawn to the recovery of the brooch.
Here the Prefect had asked for and had taken down in writing the advertisement referred to.
Then Clive had leaned forward and had asked one or two eager questions. Did the damaged condition of the brooch of necessity point to robbery, and its broken pin to violence? Was it presumable that such robbery and violence had taken place in Paris?
The Prefect had answered in cautious fashion, that, although in so serious a matter they could not afford to disregard any circumstance, however slight, they must yet be on their guard to prevent the main facts of the case from becoming entangled with side issues, which should be classified and treated as things apart. To his way of thinking, the disappearance of the lady was one thing, the finding of the brooch another. He was not prepared to say that Captain Culvers’s wife had not fallen into bad hands, and been—well—robbed, if nothing worse, and that such robbery with violence had not taken place in Paris. All he said was, that neither the condition of the brooch nor its recovery in Paris went to prove the one thing or the other. If that brooch had been in the possession of professional thieves, they would have known perfectly well how to dispose of every one of the stones, which would have been removed with the finest of jeweller’s tools, and the skeleton of the brooch would have been then dropped into a smelting-pot, not into an offertory bag. Here, however, was a brooch that had been tampered with by an amateur, who had evidently, before he was halfway through his task, become scared, and had got rid of it in the readiest way that offered. The broken pin to his mind did not of necessity point to a struggle or violence of any sort; it quite as much pointed to an accident. A broken brooch-pin and a lost brooch were matters of everyday occurrence.
In conclusion, the Prefect had asked for permission to put himself at once in communication with the English police, in order that the highest professional skill in both countries might be brought to bear on the affair, which, to his way of thinking, was beginning to assume a most serious aspect.
It was no wonder that Lord Culvers and Clive should have come away from such an interview with their hopes at their lowest, their fears at their highest; nor that the former should lean his head upon his hand declaring that life was a little too much for him just then, and that Clive should have never a word to say by way of comfort.
But if there were little to say by way of consolation, there was plenty to discuss in the arrangements of the details of the course of action which the Prefect had recommended for their adoption.
With these details Clive strove to arouse Lord Culvers from his lethargy and depression, wishing heartily, however, meanwhile, that a younger and more energetic coadjutor could have been assigned to him.
“It will be best,” he said, “for you to return to England—to London, of course; while I will remain in Paris. There should be someone in either place who can give authority or bear responsibility at a moment’s notice.”
Lord Culvers gave a heavy sigh.
“That should be Sefton’s duty; he ought to be in the front now, doing his part and helping us to do ours,” he said, querulously.
Clive could hardly trust his tongue to speak Sefton’s name.
“That man must simply be ignored; he drops out of the affair. We can do without him,” he said, curtly.
“Supposing,” said Lord Culvers presently, with a little attempt at a smile, “that Ida should write in a day or two, and tell us where she is staying, we shall all feel such fools for the fuss we have made.”
“I wish to Heaven we could be made to feel fools in that fashion,” answered Clive, vehemently, and trying his hardest to repress the feeling of irritation that was beginning to grow up in his mind against the man who could entertain such a thought at such a time.
Yet it must be confessed that Fate was dealing a little harshly with Lord Culvers at the moment.
Fancy setting an egg on end, and bidding it run about and crow like a chicken. When the poor egg rolled over and fell helplessly to the ground, one would feel bound to admit that a little too much had been required of it.
All Lord Culvers had ever asked of Providence was a quiet life in which to enjoy the good things bestowed upon him. And a quiet life was just the one thing that Providence persisted in denying to him.
But, whether able to comply with them or not, demands upon Lord Culvers’s energies were from this point to follow thick and fast.
He did his best to acquiesce heartily in Clive’s practical suggestions, and expressed his willingness to return to England on the following day. To return sooner he
