He repeated her words,

“A legal claim-”

She said with the utmost gravity,

“Mr. Bellingdon, are you perfectly persuaded in your own mind that Mrs. Herne’s husband is dead?”

They stood looking at one another. She saw surprise, anger, and something else succeed each other in his aspect. She was not entirely sure of what the third expression might be. She did not think that fear would be in keeping with his character, but it might perhaps be caution. He said,

“There has never been the slightest doubt on the subject. Oliver Herne took his car out and crashed on a mountain road. He was alone, and the car was burnt out. The body was considerably disfigured, but there was no reason to doubt that it was his. It was identified by Moira and his mechanic. His signet-ring and his cigarette-case were recovered. There has never been the slightest reason to suppose that the evidence was insufficient or unreliable. I should like to ask why you have made this astonishing suggestion.”

She said,

“I think you know why I have made it. You said yourself that the hypothetical murderer whom we were discussing would have to be very sure of his claim upon Mrs. Herne if the realization of that claim was to be the motive for his attempt on your life. From what I have been told about Mr. Herne by yourself as well as by others I have formed the impression that he was a reckless young man, living for excitement and not too scrupulous as to how he came by it. Such a character would fit into the pattern of recent events, and a husband’s claim upon Mrs. Herne’s inheritance might provide the temptation.”

He gave an angry laugh.

“I’m afraid you have too much imagination!” he said. “Moira’s marriage was turning out just as I told her it would turn out. He was spending her money, and they were quarrelling all the time. Any feeling she may have had for him was quite gone and they were on the brink of a divorce. I can assure you that as far as Oliver Herne is concerned I can rest easy and so can he. He won’t come back from the grave to trouble us.”

Chapter 29

THE parcel arrived by the first post on Monday morning. Miss Silver saw it as she passed through the hall. She had come down early because she wished to use the telephone without being overheard. There were several instruments to choose from. She decided upon the one in Mr. Bellingdon’s study, trusting to her very keen hearing to inform her if there should be any intrusion upon the line.

It being after eight o’clock, Detective Inspector Frank Abbot was out of bed and halfway through his shaving. At the sound of Miss Silver’s voice he relaxed from the stricter official manner.

“Revered preceptress! I had a horrible idea that it might be the Chief wanting to know what I thought I was doing down here, and whether the Commissioner plus the Public and the Press would be satisfied that I was earning my keep, or words to that effect. What can I do for you?”

Miss Silver told him, exercising the strictest discretion. No names were mentioned, and a further safeguard was provided by the use of the French language. As in the case of Chaucer’s immortal Prioress, this was not the French of Paris, but it had the merit of leaving Frank in no doubt as to what was required of him.

“And there should be no delay.”

On these words she rang off.

It was as she was returning from the study that she saw the parcel. It had only just been delivered, and Hilton was in the act of putting it down on the hall table. It was about the size of a shoe-box and of a very untidy appearance, the wrapping-paper being stained and frayed, and the string consisting of odd pieces untidily knotted together.

Lucius Bellingdon brought it into the dining-room with him and set it down on a window-seat. Annabel, coming in behind him, remarked on it.

“Lucius, what an extraordinary-looking box!”

He nodded without speaking and began to open his letters.

Elaine said in a fretful voice that she hoped it wasn’t plants. Nurseries packed them so damp, and they stained anything you put them down on.

Lucius looked up briefly.

“I haven’t been sending for any plants,” he said.

Moira came drifting in, stared at the parcel, and went to pour herself a cup of coffee. The others came in one by one-David, Wilfrid, Sally, Arnold Bray, and Hubert Garratt, so that they were all there when Lucius pushed the remainder of his letters over to his secretary and picked up the parcel. He cut the string, dropped the disreputable wrapping upon the window-seat, and came over to the table with a battered cardboard box in his hand. The lifted lid disclosed a mass of rather damp newspaper.

Moira turned round with her coffee-cup in her hand and Miss Bray stopped in the middle of a dissertation upon how difficult it was to get the downstair rooms done before breakfast. Miss Silver thought afterwards that it was curious how everyone stopped what they were doing and watched whilst Lucius took off a pad of crushed newspaper and dropped it on the floor. There was more paper underneath, all crushed together, all looking as if it had been left out in the rain.

He said, “What on earth-” And then there was something that felt hard amongst the squashed-up newsprint and he fished it out and began to peel the last soft wrappings away. Miss Silver saw his face change. Everyone heard him exclaim, and in a moment everyone knew why.

There isn’t anything quite so squalid as dirty paper, but the paper dropped away. The morning light from three long windows dazzled upon something as bright as itself. Brighter, because this was light concentrated and splintered into rainbows. What dangled from Lucius Bellingdon’s big brown hand was a looped chain of diamonds curiously and beautifully wrought with bows and tassels which caught the brightness and did wonderful things with it. He looked down at it with a curious set expression.

In the momentary hush that followed Miss Silver glanced about her. Annabel Scott’s colour had risen. Her eyes were wide. Elaine Bray’s mouth had fallen open. She put up a hand to her hair and tidied a straggling lock. David Moray was frowning, his brows drawn together and his face hard. Sally Foster lay back in her chair. She looked frightened, and all her colour was gone. Wilfrid Gaunt had a startled air. He had been saying something to Sally and smiling as he said it. The smile was not quite gone. Arnold Bray had dropped his napkin and was stooping to pick it up. Hubert Garratt, like Sally, was leaning back. He looked very ill.

The person who moved first was Moira Herne. There was only just time for that general gasp of astonishment, for Miss Silver’s almost instantaneous impression, before she was on her feet, her light hair floating and her hands stretched out.

“Oh, it’s my necklace! Oh, Lucy!”

Even in a moment like this it was intensely disagreeable to Miss Silver to hear Mr. Bellingdon addressed in this manner. It was a habit which should never have been allowed to grow up. At the same time she realized the necessity for making a conscientious effort not to allow it to prejudice her against Moira Herne.

Mr. Bellingdon raised his eyebrows and said in his coolest voice,

“Your necklace, Moira?”

There was a little flush in her white skin.

“You said I could have it-for the Ball. You gave it to me.”

He repeated her words in such a manner as to reverse the meaning.

“Nonsense! I said you could have it for the Ball.” After a momentary pause he continued. “Since you have given up the idea of appearing as Marie Antoinette, you won’t require it now. As a matter of fact-the associations-I shouldn’t have thought you would have cared about wearing it.”

Her hands had remained stretched out as if reaching for it-long white hands with scarlet nails. They dropped back now, but slowly. She said,