“No, nothing else, so far as I can see. Wait a bit, though! They’ve taken the electrotype copies as well. There were three of each: three medallions and an electrotype from each that Foxton Clifford made for us. The whole six are gone.”
She cast a final glance at the compartment.
“No, there’s nothing else missing, so far as I can see. Some of the things are displaced a bit; but everything except the medallions and the electros seems to be here.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Certain.”
Sir Clinton seemed satisfied.
“Of course we’ll have to check the stuff by the catalogue to make sure,” he said, “but I expect you’re right. The medallions alone would be quite a good enough haul for a minute or two’s work; and probably they had their eyes on the things as the best paying proposition of the lot.”
“But why did they take the electros as well?” Joan demanded.
Then a possible explanation occurred to her.
“Oh, of course, they wouldn’t know which was which, so they took the lot in order to make sure.”
“Possibly,” Sir Clinton admitted. “But don’t let’s be going too fast, Joan. We’d better not get ideas into our minds till we’ve got all the evidence, you know.”
“Oh, I see,” said Joan, with a faint return of her normal spirits, “I’m to be Watson, am I? And you’ll prove in a minute or two what an ass I’ve made of myself. Is that the idea?”
“Not altogether,” Sir Clinton returned, with a smile. “But let’s have the facts before the theories.”
He turned to the keeper.
“Now we’ll take your story, Mold; but give us the things in the exact order in which they happened, if you can. And don’t be worried if I break in with questions.”
Mold thought for a moment or two before beginning his tale.
“I’m trying to remember how many people there were in the room just before the lights went out,” he explained at last, “but somehow I don’t quite seem able to put a figure on it, Sir Clinton. I’ve a sort of feeling that some of ’em must ha’ got away before I stopped the door—sneaked off in the dark. At least I know I felt surprised when I saw how few I’d got left when they began to come up to me to be let out. But that’s all I can really say, sir.”
Sir Clinton evidently approved of the keeper’s caution.
“Now tell us exactly what happened when the light went out. This is the bit where I want you to be careful. Tell us everything you can remember.”
Mold fixed his eye on the corner of the room near the safe.
“I was patrollin’ round the room, sir, most of the night. I didn’t stand in one place all the time. Now just when the light was about to go out, I was walkin’ away from this case here”—he nodded towards the rifled central case—“and as near as may be, I’d got to the entrance to that second-last bay, just before you come to the safe. I just turned round to come back, when I heard a pistol goin’ off.”
“That was the first thing that attracted your attention?” questioned Sir Clinton. “It’s an important point, Mold.”
“That was the first thing out o’ the common that happened,” Mold asserted. “The pistol went bang, and out went the light, and I heard glass tinkling all over the place.”
“Shot the light out, did they?” Sir Clinton mused.
He glanced up at the carved wooden ceiling, but evidently failed to find what he was looking for.
“Have you a pair of race-glasses, Joan? Prismatics, or even opera-glasses? Tell Mold where he can get them, please.”
Joan gave the keeper instructions and he left the room.
“Knock when you come back again,” Sir Clinton ordered. “I’m going to lock the door to keep out the inquisitive.”
As soon as the keeper was out of earshot, Sir Clinton turned to Joan.
“This fellow Mold, is he a reliable man? Do you know anything about him, Joan?”
“He’s our head keeper. We’ve always trusted him completely.”
She glanced at Sir Clinton, trying to read the expression on his face.
“You don’t think he’s at the bottom of the business, do you? I never thought of that!”
“I’m only collecting facts at present. All I want to know is whether you know Mold to be reliable.”
“We’ve always found him so.”
“Good. We’ll make a note of that; and if we get the thing cleared up, then we’ll perhaps be able to confirm that opinion of yours.”
In a few minutes a knock came at the door and Sir Clinton admitted the keeper.
“Prismatics?” he said, taking the glasses from Mold. “They’ll do quite well.”
Adjusting the focus, he subjected the ceiling of the room to a minute scrutiny. At last he handed the glasses to Joan.
“Look up there,” he said, indicating the position.
Joan swept the place with the glasses for a moment.
“I see,” she said. “That’s a bullet-hole in the wood, isn’t it?”
Sir Clinton confirmed her guess.
“That’s evidently where the bullet went after knocking the lamp to pieces. Pull the steps over there, Mold. I want to have a closer look at the thing.”
With some difficulty, owing to his injured ankle, he ascended the steps and inspected the tiny cavity.
“It looks like a ·22 calibre. One could carry a Colt pistol of that size in one’s pocket and no one would notice it.”
