British Mystery Classics - Arthur Morrison Edition (Illustrated). Morrison Arthur

      “No, my niece. Do you want to ask her anything? Dora, my dear,” Sir James added, following her in the corridor, “this is Mr. Hewitt, who is investigating these wretched robberies for me. I think he would like to hear if you remember anything happening at any of the three times.”

      The lady bowed slightly, and said in a plaintive drawl: “I, uncle? Really, I don’t remember anything; nothing at all.”

      “You found Mrs. Armitage’s door locked, I believe,” asked Hewitt, “when you tried it, on the afternoon when she lost her brooch?”

      “Oh, yes; I believe it was locked. Yes, it was.”

      “Had the key been left in?”

      “The key? Oh, no! I think not; no.”

      “Do you remember anything out of the common happening—anything whatever, no matter how trivial—on the day Mrs. Heath lost her bracelet?”

      “No, really, I don’t. I can’t remember at all.”

      “Nor yesterday?”

      “No, nothing. I don’t remember anything.”

      “Thank you,” said Hewitt, hastily; “thank you. Now the morning-room, Sir James.”

      In the morning-room Hewitt stayed but a few seconds, doing little more than casually glance out of the windows. In the room above he took a little longer time. It was a comfortable room, but with rather effeminate indications about its contents. Little pieces of draped silk-work hung about the furniture, and Japanese silk fans decorated the mantel-piece. Near the window was a cage containing a gray parrot, and the writing-table was decorated with two vases of flowers.

      “Lloyd makes himself pretty comfortable, eh?” Sir James observed. “But it isn’t likely anybody would be here while he was out, at the time that bracelet went.”

      “No,” replied Hewitt, meditatively. “No, I suppose not.”

      He stared thoughtfully out of the window, and then, still deep in thought, rattled at the wires of the cage with a quill toothpick and played a moment with the parrot. Then, looking up at the window again, he said: “That is Mr. Lloyd, isn’t it, coming back in a fly?”

      “Yes, I think so. Is there anything else you would care to see here?”

      “No, thank you,” Hewitt replied; “I don’t think there is.”

      They went down to the smoking-room, and Sir James went away to speak to his secretary. When he returned, Hewitt said quietly: “I think, Sir James—I think that I shall be able to give you your thief presently.”

      “What! Have you a clue? Who do you think? I began to believe you were hopelessly stumped.”

      “Well, yes. I have rather a good clue, although I can’t tell you much about it just yet. But it is so good a clue that I should like to know now whether you are determined to prosecute when you have the criminal?”

      “Why, bless me, of course,” Sir James replied, with surprise. “It doesn’t rest with me, you know—the property belongs to my friends. And even if they were disposed to let the thing slide, I shouldn’t allow it—I couldn’t, after they had been robbed in my house.”

      “Of course, of course! Then, if I can, I should like to send a message to Twyford by somebody perfectly trustworthy—not a servant. Could anybody go?”

      “Well, there’s Lloyd, although he’s only just back from his journey. But, if it’s important, he’ll go.”

      “It is important. The fact is we must have a policeman or two here this evening, and I’d like Mr. Lloyd to fetch them without telling anybody else.”

      Sir James rang, and, in response to his message, Mr. Lloyd appeared. While Sir James gave his secretary his instructions, Hewitt strolled to the door of the smoking-room, and intercepted the latter as he came out.

      “I’m sorry to give you this trouble, Mr. Lloyd,” he said, “but I must stay here myself for a little, and somebody who can be trusted must go. Will you just bring back a police-constable with you? or rather two—two would be better. That is all that is wanted. You won’t let the servants know, will you? Of course there will be a female searcher at the Twyford police-station? Ah—of course. Well, you needn’t bring her, you know. That sort of thing is done at the station.” And, chatting thus confidentially, Martin Hewitt saw him off.

      When Hewitt returned to the smoking-room, Sir James said, suddenly: “Why, bless my soul, Mr. Hewitt, we haven’t fed you! I’m awfully sorry. We came in rather late for lunch, you know, and this business has bothered me so I clean forgot everything else. There’s no dinner till seven, so you’d better let me give you something now. I’m really sorry. Come along.”

      “Thank you, Sir James,” Hewitt replied; “I won’t take much. A few biscuits, perhaps, or something of that sort. And, by the by, if you don’t mind, I rather think I should like to take it alone. The fact is I want to go over this case thoroughly by myself. Can you put me in a room?”

      “Any room you like. Where will you go? The dining-room’s rather large, but there’s my study, that’s pretty snug, or—”

      “Perhaps I can go into Mr. Lloyd’s room for half an hour or so; I don’t think he’ll mind, and it’s pretty comfortable.”

      “Certainly, if you’d like. I’ll tell them to send you whatever they’ve got.”

      “Thank you very much. Perhaps they’ll also send me a lump of sugar and a walnut; it’s—it’s a little fad of mine.”

      “A—what? A lump of sugar and a walnut?” Sir James stopped for a moment, with his hand on the bell-rope. “Oh, certainly, if you’d like it; certainly,” he added, and stared after this detective with curious tastes as he left the room.

      When the vehicle, bringing back the secretary and the policeman, drew up on the drive, Martin Hewitt left the room on the first floor and proceeded down-stairs. On the landing he met Sir James Norris and Mrs. Cazenove, who stared with astonishment on perceiving that the detective carried in his hand the parrot-cage.

      “I think our business is about brought to a head now,” Hewitt remarked, on the stairs. “Here are the police officers from Twyford.” The men were standing in the hall with Mr. Lloyd, who, on catching sight of the cage in Hewitt’s hand, paled suddenly.

      “This is the person who will be charged, I think,” Hewitt pursued, addressing the officers, and indicating Lloyd with his finger.

      “What, Lloyd?” gasped Sir James, aghast. “No—not Lloyd—nonsense!”

      “He doesn’t seem to think it nonsense himself, does he?” Hewitt placidly observed. Lloyd had sank on a chair, and, gray of face, was staring blindly at the man he had run against at the office door that morning. His lips moved in spasms, but there was no sound. The wilted flower fell from his button-hole to the floor, but he did not move.

      “This is his accomplice,” Hewitt went on, placing the parrot and cage on the hall table, “though I doubt whether there will be any use in charging him. Eh, Polly?”

      The parrot put his head aside and chuckled. “Hullo, Polly!” it quietly gurgled. “Come along!”

      Sir James Norris was hopelessly bewildered. “Lloyd—Lloyd,” he said, under his breath. “Lloyd—and that!”

      “This was his little messenger, his useful Mercury,” Hewitt explained, tapping the cage complacently; “in fact, the actual lifter. Hold him up!”

      The last remark referred to the wretched Lloyd, who had fallen forward with something between a sob and a loud sigh.