could it possibly matter to me if a detective identified them as mine? I hadn't taken the "Blue Water," and nobody could prove that I had.
And why was Michael so anxious that his finger-marks should not be found there as a piece of evidence to be coupled with the fact that I had been seen holding his wrist, above the glass cover, when the lights were turned on?
I went up to my room despairing, and trying to recall what I had read, somewhere, about the method of examining finger-prints. I believe they blow a fine powder on to them and then apply carbon-paper or tissue-paper, and take a photograph of the result.
Anyhow, if Aunt had been wily enough to polish the box, just where we would touch it, so that she could get the finger-prints of the person who opened it, she'd get mine all right and those of nobody else, when the detectives came.
§8.
Aunt Patricia did not appear at lunch, nor did Claudia. The Chaplain was still ill in bed.
As Burdon and a footman always waited at that meal, there was no general conversation on the one subject of interest to us all.
It was a painful meal, to me at any rate, though Digby seemed perfectly happy, and Michael unconcerned. The only reference to the theft was during a brief absence of the servants.
"Did you tell Aunt what you proposed to tell her? What did she say?" asked Michael of Isobel.
"Yes. . . . She said, somewhat cryptically, 'Virtue is its own reward,' and nothing else," replied Isobel.
"Gussie," said Digby, "Isobel has--one cannot say 'bearded' of a lady--let us say faced--Aunt Patricia in her wrath, in order to tell her that you must be absolutely innocent of sin, and quite above or beneath suspicion."
"What do you mean?" snarled Augustus.
"She very kindly went to the lioness's den," continued Digby, "to say that she seized you and hung on to you last night while the lights were out--and that, therefore, you could not possibly have gone to the table and pinched the sapphire, as she was hanging on to your arm. I sincerely apologise to you, Gussie, and hope you'll forgive me."
"My arm?" said Augustus, in deep and genuine surprise, ignoring the apology, and quickly adding, "Oh, yes--er--of course. Thanks, Isobel."
We all looked at him. I had been watching him when he spoke, and to me his surprise was perfectly obvious.
"Then Aunt knows I didn't do it?" he said.
"Yes, Gussie," Isobel assured him, "and I'm awfully sorry I didn't say it, at once, last night."
"Yes--I thought you might have done so," replied our Augustus.
"Isobel is not so keen on exculpating herself too, you see," said I, glaring at the creature. "If she were holding your arm, she could not have gone to the table herself. Proving your innocence proves her own."
"Well--she might have thought of me," he grumbled.
"She has, Gussie," said Michael; "we shall all think of you, I'm sure. . . . Anyhow, we are all sorry we were unkind and suspicious."
"Suspicious! You!" said Augustus. "Huh!"
"Yes--and I'm sorry I searched you, Ghastly," put in Digby. . . . "I'll unsearch you by and by, if you're not careful," he added.
And then David and Burdon came in with the next course.
After lunch, feeling disgruntled and miserable, I went along to the billiard-room to knock the balls about, as one could not very well leave the house in face of Lady Brandon's request.
Augustus was before me and I turned to retreat. I was in no mood to suffer Augustus gladly.
"Police come yet?" he jeered.
"No--you're safe for the present," I replied.
"You heard what Isobel said at lunch," he squealed.
"Yes," said I, going out, "you could hardly believe your ears, could you?" and I am afraid that the anger that I felt was almost entirely due to my conviction that he was absolutely innocent. Isobel could not very well be mistaken. I supposed that Augustus must have quite forgotten the incident until Isobel mentioned it, or else had never noticed it at all. Certainly that was far more probable, than that Isobel had made a mistake as to whom she had clutched in the darkness, especially as she did not leave go until the lights came on and started us all blinking at each other.
I went up to my bedroom, feeling deadly tired after my wakeful night and all the worry, and threw myself on my bed.
I was awakened from a heavy sleep by the entrance of Digby, a couple of hours later. He held a letter in his hand.
"Hi, hog," quoth he, "wake up and listen. . . . Latest edition," and he sat himself down heavily on the foot of the bed.
"What's up now?" I yawned, rubbing my eyes.
"We've got to use our wits and do something to help Beau. Show the mettle of our pastures and all that. . . . Beau's done a bunk. Left this note with David. Says he pinched the 'Blue Water,' and isn't going to face the police."
"What?" I cried.
"Read it," said Digby, and passed the letter to me.
"My dear Dig," it ran, "I have told David to give you this at four o'clock, by which time I shall be well on my way to--where I am going. Will you please tell Aunt that there is no further need to chivvy any of you about the 'Blue Water.' If the police come or a mystery-merchant from Scotland Yard, tell them that you knew that I was in sore straights--or is it straits (or crookeds?) for money, but that you think that this is my first offence and I must have been led away by bad companions (you and John, of course). Keep an eye on young John, and tell him I hope he'll be a good boy. If I send you an address later, it will be in absolute confidence, and relying wholly on your utterly refusing to give it to ANYBODY, for any reason whatsoever. I do hope that things will settle down quickly and quietly, now that the criminal is known. Sad, sad, sad! Give my love to Claudia. Ever thine, Michael."
"It can't be true," I said. "It's impossible."
"Of course it is, fat-head," replied Digby. "He's off on the romantic tack. Taking the blame and all that. . . . Shielding his little brother. . . ."
"Which?" I asked. "You?"
"No," said Digby.
"Me?" I asked.
"Subtle mathematician," observed Digby.
"But I didn't do it," I said.
"Nor did I," said Digby, and added, "Let's say 'Taking the blame and thinking he's shielding his little brother' then."
"But, Dig," I expostulated, "do you think Beau seriously supposes for one moment that you or I would steal a valuable jewel--and from Aunt Patricia of all people?"
"Somebody has stolen it, haven't they?" said Digby. "And I tell you what, my lad," he added; "you say that Beau would never seriously suppose that you or I would steal it--but you yourself seriously
