The Black Box. E. Phillips Oppenheim

sofa? Or,” he added, his eyes resting for a moment upon the little box, “a black box?”

      The two girls from the other side of the table started. Even Quest swung suddenly around. The Professor, as though pleased with his fancy, nodded as his fingers played with the lid.

      “Yes, that will do very nicely,” he decided. “Put me down—‘Black Box,’ five hundred dollars.”

      The girl took out her book and began to write. The Professor, with a little farewell bow, crossed the room towards Quest. Lenora moved towards the door.

      “Let me see you out,” she said to the girl pleasantly. “Don’t you find this collecting sometimes very hard work?”

      “Days like to-day,” the girl replied, “atone for everything. When I think of the good that five hundred dollars will do, I feel perfectly happy.”

      Lenora opened the door. Both girls started. Only a few feet away Craig was standing, his head a little thrust forward. For a moment the quiet self-respect of his manner seemed to have deserted him. He seemed at a loss for words.

      “What do you want?” Lenora demanded.

      Craig hesitated. His eyes were fixed upon the Salvation Army girl. The changes in his face were remarkable. She, however, beyond smiling pleasantly at him, gave no sign of any recognition.

      “I was waiting for my master,” Craig explained.

      “Why not downstairs?” Lenora asked suspiciously. “You did not come up with him.”

      “I am driving the Professor in his automobile,” Craig explained. “It occurred to me that if he were going to be long here, I should have time to go and order another tire. It is of no consequence, though. I will go down and wait in the car.”

      Lenora stood at the top of the stairs and watched him disappear. Then she went thoughtfully back to her work. The Professor and Quest were talking at the farther end of the room.

      “I was in hopes, in great hopes,” the Professor admitted, “that you might have heard something. I promised to call at Mrs. Rheinholdt’s this afternoon.”

      Quest shook his head.

      “There is nothing to report at present, Mr. Ashleigh,” he announced.

      “Dear me,” the Professor murmured, “this is very disappointing. Is there no clue, Mr. Quest—no clue at all?”

      “Not the ghost of one,” Quest acknowledged. “I am as far from solving the mystery of the disappearance of your skeleton and Mrs. Rheinholdt’s necklace, as I have ever been.”

      The Professor failed entirely to conceal his disappointment. His tone, in fact, was almost peevish.

      “I should have expected this from the regular officials of the law, Mr. Quest,” he admitted, “but I must say that in your hands I had hoped—but there, there! Excuse me! I am an old man, Mr. Quest. I am getting a little irritable. Disappointments affect me quickly. I must be patient. I will be patient.”

      “There are certain evidences,” Quest remarked, with his eyes upon the black box, “which seem to point to a new arrival in the criminal world of New York. More than that I cannot tell you. I will simply ask you to believe that I am doing my best.”

      “And with that, Mr. Quest, I will be content,” the Professor promised. “I will now pay my promised call upon Mrs. Rheinholdt. I shall convey to her your assurance that everything that is possible is being done. Good morning, young ladies,” he concluded. “Good morning, Mr. Quest.”

      He took a courteous leave of them all and departed. Lenora crossed the room to where Quest was seated at the table.

      “Mr. Quest,” she asked, “do you believe in inspiration?”

      “I attribute a large amount of my success,” Quest replied, “to my profound belief in it.”

      “Then let me tell you,” Lenora continued, “that I have one and a very strong one. Do you know that when I went to the door a few minutes ago, the Professor’s servant, Craig, was there, listening?”

      “Craig?” Quest repeated. “Let me see, that was the man who was at the Rheinholdts’ house the night of the robbery, and who might have left through the conservatory.”

      “He did leave by it,” Lenora declared. “He is in a state of panic at the present moment. What else do you suppose he was out there listening for?”

      “The Professor speaks very highly of him,” Quest reminded her.

      “The Professor is just one of those amiable old idiots, absorbed in his mouldy old work, who would never notice anything,” Lenora persisted. “He is just the man to be completely hoodwinked by a clever servant.”

      “There is some sense in what the kid says,” Laura remarked, strolling up. “The fact remains that Craig was one of the few men who could have got at the necklace that night, and he is also one of the few who knew about the skeleton.”

      Quest sighed as he lit a cigar.

      “It is a miserably obvious solution,” he said. “To tell you the truth, girls, our friend Inspector French has had his men watching Craig ever since the night of the robbery. What’s that? Answer the telephone, Lenora.”

      Lenora obeyed.

      “It’s Inspector French,” she announced. “He wants to speak to you.”

      Quest nodded, and held out his hand for the receiver.

      “Hullo, French,” he exclaimed. “Anything fresh?”

      “Nothing much!” was the answer. “One of my men, though, who has been up Mayton Avenue way, brought in something I found rather interesting this morning. I want you to come round and see it.”

      “Go right ahead and tell me about it,” Quest invited.

      “You know we’ve been shadowing Craig,” the Inspector continued. “Not much luck up till now. Fellow seems never to leave his master’s side. We have had a couple of men up there, though, and one of them brought in a curious-looking object he picked up just outside the back of the Professor’s grounds. It’s an untidy sort of neighbourhood, you know—kind of waste ground they commenced to build over, and then the real estate man who had it in hand, went smash.”

      “What is the thing?” Quest asked.

      “Well, I want to see whether you agree with me,” French went on. “If you can’t come round, I’ll come to you.”

      “No necessity,” Quest replied. “We’ve got over little difficulties of that sort. Laura, just tack on the phototelesme,” he added, holding the receiver away for a moment. “One moment, French. There, that’s right,” he added, as Laura, with deft fingers, arranged what seemed to be a sensitised mirror to the instrument. “Now, French, hold up the article just in front of the receiver.”

      French’s reply was a little brusque.

      “What are you getting at, Quest?” he demanded. “You are not going to pretend that you can see from your room into this, are you?”

      “If you’ll hold the object where I told you,” Quest replied, “I can see it. I promise you that. There, that’s right. Hold it steady. I’ve got the focus of it now. Say, French, where did you say that was found?”

      “Just outside the Professor’s back gates,” French grunted, “but you’re not kidding me—”

      “It’s a finger from the Professor’s skeleton you’ve got there,” Quest interrupted.

      “How the blazes did you guess that?” the Inspector demanded.

      “I’m not kidding,” Quest assured him. “I’ve got a phototelesme at work here. I’ve