"Have you touched the sapphire since the Chaplain put it under its cover?"
"No, Aunt. Really, I haven't! I assure you I . . ." began Augustus, to be again interrupted by the cold question:
"Do you know where the 'Blue Water' is now?"
"No, Aunt," promptly replied he, "upon my soul I don't. If I did, I'd jolly well . . ."
"John," said my aunt, without further notice of Augustus, "do you know where the stone is?"
"No, Aunt," I replied, and added, "nor have I touched it since the Chaplain did."
She favoured me with a long, long look, which I was able to meet quite calmly, and I hope not at all rudely. As I looked away, my eyes met Michael's. He was watching me queerly.
Then came Digby's turn. He said quite simply and plainly that he knew nothing about the jewel's disappearance and had not touched it since it was passed to him by Claudia, and handed on by him to Isobel.
There remained Michael. He was the culprit, or else one of us had told a most deliberate, calculated, and circumstantial lie, inexcusable and disgraceful.
I felt angrier with Michael than I had ever done in my life, yet I was angry rather for him than with him. It was so utterly unlike him to do such a stupid thing, and to allow all this unpleasant and undignified inquisition to go on, when a word from him would have ended it.
Why must my idol act as though he had feet of clay--or, at any rate, smear clay upon his feet? The joke was unworthy, but the lie was really painfully so.
I have no objection to the good thumping lie that is "a very present help in time of trouble," told at the right time and in the right cause (such as to save the other fellow's bacon). But I have the strongest distaste for a silly lie that merely gives annoyance to other people, and puts blame upon an innocent person.
From the moment I had caught him in the act of trying to return the jewel secretly, I had felt sick with indignation, and literally and physically sick when, his effort frustrated by me, he had pretended innocence and held on for another opportunity of returning the thing unseen.
Had I not myself caught him in the very act, he was, of all of us, the last person whom I should have suspected. He and Isobel, that is to say. I should have strongly suspected Augustus, and, his innocence established, I should have supposed that Digby had fallen a victim to his incurable love of joking--though I should have been greatly surprised.
Had Digby then been proved innocent, I am afraid I should have suspected Claudia of wishing to turn the limelight on herself by an innocently naughty escapade--before I should ever have entertained the idea of Michael doing it and denying it.
Now that all had firmly and categorically declared their absolute innocence and ignorance in the matter, I had no option (especially in view of my catching him at the spot) but to conclude that Michael had been what I had never known him to be before--a fool, a cad, and a liar.
I could have struck him for hurting himself so.
"Michael," said Aunt Patricia very gravely, very coldly, and very sadly, "I'm sorry. More so than I can tell you, Michael. Please put the 'Blue Water' back, and I will say no more. But I doubt whether I shall feel like calling you 'Beau' for some time."
"I can't put it back, Aunt, for I haven't got it," said Michael quietly, and my heart bounded.
"Do you know where it is, Michael?" asked my aunt.
"I do not, Aunt," was the immediate reply.
"Have you touched the sapphire since the Chaplain did, Michael?" was the next question.
"I have not, Aunt," was the quiet answer.
"Do you know anything about its disappearance, Michael?" asked the hard level voice.
"I only know that I have had nothing whatever to do with its disappearance, Aunt," answered my brother, and I was aghast.
"Do you declare that all you have just said is the absolute truth, Michael?" was the final question.
"I declare it to be the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," was the final answer.
§4.
What was I to think? Certainly I could not think that Michael was lying. Equally certainly I could not forget that I had caught his hand on the glass cover.
On the whole, if I had to doubt either Michael or the evidence of my senses, I preferred to do the latter. When we got out of that terrible room, I would go to him when he was alone, and say, "Beau, old chap, just tell me you didn't touch the thing--and if you say you didn't, there's an absolute end of it." And so there would be as far as I was concerned. . . .
On hearing his last words, my aunt sat and stared at Michael. The silence grew horrible. At length she began to speak in a low frozen voice.
"This is inexpressibly vulgar and disgusting," she began. "One of half a dozen boys and girls, who have practically grown up here, is a despicable liar and, apparently, a common thief--or an uncommon one. I am still unable to think the latter. . . . Listen. . . . I shall leave the cover where it is and I shall lock the doors of this room at midnight and keep the keys, except the key of that one. Bring it to me, Digby. . . . Thank you.
"This key I shall put in the old brass box on the ledge above the fire-place in the outer hall. The servants will have gone to bed and will know nothing of its whereabouts. I ask the liar, who is present, to take the opportunity of returning the sapphire during the night, relocking the door, and replacing the key in the brass box. If this is not done by the time I come down to-morrow, I shall have to conclude that the liar is also a thief, and act accordingly. For form's sake I shall tell Claudia and Isobel."
"Come, Maurice," she added, rising and taking the Chaplain's arm. "I do hope you won't let this worry you, and give you a sleepless night."
The poor Chaplain looked too unhappy, bewildered, and bemused to speak.
Having locked two of the doors, Lady Brandon, followed by the Chaplain, swept from the room without a "Good night" to any of us.
I think we each heaved a sigh of relief as the door shut. I certainly did.
And now, what?
Digby turned upon Augustus.
"Oh, you unutterable cheese-mite," he said, apparently more in sorrow than in anger. "I think de-bagging is indicated. . . . And a leather belt," he added, "unless anyone's pumps are nice and swishy."
I said nothing. It was not the hand of Augustus that I had caught feeling for the cover.
He glared from one to the other of us like a trapped rat, and almost shrieked as Digby seized him.
"You lying swine," he shouted. "Who was by the table when the light failed and came on again? Who was grabbing who, when Isobel turned it on?"
I looked at Michael, and Michael looked at me.
"Yes," screamed Augustus seeing the look, and wriggling free.
"By
