Jove!" said Digby, "if he pinched it, he's got it. . . . Come to my arms, Gus!" and in a moment he was sitting upon the prostrate form of the hysterically indignant youth, and feeling the pockets of his dinner-jacket from the outside.
"Not in his breast-pockets . . . side . . . waistcoat . . . trousers . . . no--the beggar hasn't got it unless he has swallowed it," announced Digby. Then . . . "Might have shoved it behind a cushion or dropped it somewhere. . . . Come on, out with it, Gus, and let's get to bed."
"You filthy, lying, beastly cad," blubbered Augustus in reply, showing the courage of the cornered rat.
I don't think he had ever defied or insulted either of my brothers before in his life.
I expected to see him promptly suffer grief and pain at their hands, but Michael did the unexpected, as usual.
"Why, I believe the little man's innocent after all," he said quite kindly.
"You know I am, you damned hypocrite," shouted Augustus. "Weren't you and John fumbling at the cover when she turned the light on--you cowardly blackguards."
Digby's hand closed on the scruff of the boy's neck.
"If I have accused you wrongly, Gussie, I'll humbly apologise and make it up to you," said he. "But if we find you did do it--oh, my little Gussie . . . !"
"And if you find it was Michael, or John, or yourself?" sneered the dishevelled and shaking Augustus.
Michael looked hard at me and I looked hard at him.
"Look here," said Digby, "presumably the thing is in the room. Aunt wouldn't pinch her own jewel. The Chaplain has no use for it nor for thirty thousand pounds. No one supposes Isobel did it--nor Claudia. That leaves us four, and we haven't been out of the room. Come on, find it. Find it, Gussie, and I'll swear that I put it there," and Digby began throwing cushions from sofas and chairs, moving footstools, turning up rugs, and generally hunting about, the while he encouraged himself, and presumably Augustus, with cries of "Good dog! . . . Fetch 'em, boy! . . . Seize 'em, Gussie! . . . Sick 'em, pup! . . . Worry 'im, Gus!" and joyful barks.
Michael and I searched methodically and minutely, until it was perfectly clear that the "Blue Water" was not in the room, unless far more skilfully concealed than would have been possible in the dark and in the few minutes at the disposal of anyone who wished to hide it.
"Well, that's that," said Digby at last. "We'd better push off before Aunt comes down to lock the door. I don't want to see her again to-night. Damned if I don't feel guilty as soon as she looks at me."
"Perhaps you are!" snarled Augustus.
"You never know, do you?" grinned Digby.
"Better tidy up a bit before we go," suggested Michael. "Servants'll smell a rat if it's like this to-morrow."
"Smell a herd of elephants, I should think," answered Digby, and we three straightened the disordered room, while Augustus sullenly watched us, with an angry, bitter sneer, and an occasional snarl of "Beastly humbugs," or, "Lying hypocrites."
"Come to the smoking-room, you two?" said Digby to Michael and me, when we had finished.
"Yes--go and fix it up, cads," urged Augustus.
"Go to bed, Ghastly," replied Digby, "and don't forget the key will be in the brass box on the ledge over the fire-place in the outer hall. Bung off."
"For two damns I'd sit in the hall all night, and see who comes for it," was the reply, and the speaker glanced at me.
"Don't let me find you there, or I shall slap you," said Digby.
"No, I shouldn't be popular if I went there now and refused to budge, should I?" was the angry retort.
"Lord! It's a long worm that has no turning," cryptically remarked Digby, as Augustus took what was meant to be a dignified departure. "And a long lane that has no public-house," he added.
"Either that lad's innocent or he's a really accomplished young actor," I observed, looking after the retreating Augustus as we crossed the hall, where we said "Good night" to a yawning footman, and made our way down a corridor to the smoking-room.
§5.
"Well, my sons, what about it?" said Michael, poking up the fire, as we threw ourselves into deep leather arm-chairs and produced pipes.
"Pretty go if the damned thing isn't there in the morning," said Digby.
"I wonder if she'd send to Scotland Yard?" he added, blowing a long cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.
"Filthy business," said Michael. "Fancy a fat mystery-merchant prowling about here and questioning everybody!"
"What a lark!" chuckled Digby. "Jolly glad the servants are out of it all right, poor beggars."
"Beastly vulgar business, as Aunt said," observed Michael.
"And a bit rough on her too--apart from any question of thirty thousand pounds," said I.
"Shake her faith a bit in human nature, what?" said Digby. "But, damn it--the beastly thing will be there all right in the morning."
"I hope to God it will," said I from the bottom of my heart, and found that Michael and I were staring at each other again.
"Reconstruct the dreadful crime," suggested Digby. "Wash out Aunt and the Chaplain."
"And the girls," said Michael. "If anyone even glanced at the possibility of Claudia stealing, I'd wring his beastly neck until he could see all down his beastly back."
"I'd wring the neck of anyone who even glanced at the possibility of Isobel stealing--until he hadn't a head to see with," added Digby.
"Wouldn't it be too silly to be worth noticing at all?" I asked. I was thinking more particularly of Isobel.
"Let's go and beat young Gussie," said Digby.
"Gussie doesn't know a thing about it," said Michael. "Nothing but genuine injured innocence would have given him the pluck to call us 'Filthy liars,' and 'Damned hypocrites.' You know, if he'd been guilty, he'd have been conciliatory, voluble, and tearful--oh, altogether different. A much more humble parishioner."
"Believe you're right, Beau," agreed Digby. "Nothing like a sense of injustice to put you up on the bough. . . . 'Sides, young Gus hasn't the guts to pinch anything really valuable. . . . And if he'd taken it for a lark and hadn't been able to put it back, he'd have hidden it behind a cushion till he could. I quite expected to find it in some such place. That's why I gave him the chance. . . . If he has got it, he'll shove it back to-night," he added.
"He hasn't," said Michael--and again Michael and I found ourselves looking at each other.
"Well--that leaves us three then," said I.
"It does," said Michael.
"You can count me out, old son," grinned Digby. "Search me."
"Which reminds one, by the way, that we didn't search ourselves, or each other, when we searched Gussie," said I. "It would have
