The minutes passed slowly — so slowly that more than once Mr. Lumley put his watch to his ear to make sure that it was still ticking. But at last six o’clock came, and Mr. Snaith was announced.
“Say, but your railroads want hustling some,” was his greeting as he stepped breezily into the room. “I’ve just got in from Paris, only forty minutes late.” He sat down and opened his heavy coat, then went on with more than a trace of anxiety in his tone: “And how has the deal gone?”
“Got it through, Mr. Snaith, I am glad to say, and with very little trouble. But one thing is rather upsetting. Lord Arthur says the picture isn’t genuine — it’s only a copy.”
Snaith looked up sharply.
“But you have it all right — here?” he asked, and in spite of an obvious effort, there was eagerness in his voice.
“Yes; it’s in my safe. But when he said it was a copy, I was doubtful—”
“That’s all right. I thought he mightn’t know. Don’t worry yourself any. All you’ve to do is to give me the picture and get your money, and the deal’s O.K. What did you pay him?”
“Two thousand, but he said he would refund it if you found the picture was a copy and returned it within a month.”
“Did he so? Well, now, that was very considerate of him. Let’s have the thing, anyhow.”
Mr. Lumley rose and, unlocking the safe, took from it the dispatch-case and laid it on the desk before his visitor. With an eagerness that he could no longer control, Snaith withdrew the picture and, his hands trembling with excitement, tore off the tissue covering. For a moment he gazed at the picture with a gloating satisfaction; then his face changed.
“This is not it!” he cried sharply, and his eyes searched Mr. Lumley’s face with a look in which suspicion turned rapidly to menace. “By the Lord, if you try to pull any stuff on me, I’ll make you wish you had never been born! What’s the meaning of it?”
Mr. Lumley, fortified by the knowledge of the presence of his other visitors, took a more lofty tone than he otherwise might have essayed.
“Really, Mr. Snaith,” he answered in cold tones, “you forget yourself. I am not accustomed to be spoken to in that way. When you apologize I’ll continue the conversation, not before.”
For a moment it seemed as if Snaith would resort to violence. Then an idea seemed to strike him, and he controlled himself with an obvious effort and spoke again.
“No offense — no offense,” he growled irritably. “You’re so plaguey set on your dignity. But explain. That’s not Lord Arthur’s picture.”
“That is Lord Arthur’s picture,” Mr. Lumley asserted stoutly.
“Then you’ve been monkeying with it. It’s not the frame.”
“It’s not the frame, I know, and if you had been more civil I should express greater regret. As a matter of fact, I dropped the picture — most carelessly, I admit — but it slipped—”
Snaith’s gaze had fixed itself on Mr. Lumley with a dreadful intensity. At last, unable to control himself any longer, he burst out:
“Darn it all, man, get to the point, can’t you! Where is the frame now?”
“It’s here. As I was saying, I dropped the picture and damaged the corner of the frame. I got it refrained, but the old frame was sent back also.”
Mr. Snaith sat back limply and wiped his forehead.
“Why the blazes couldn’t you say so at once?” he growled. “I’ll have the old frame too.”
Mr. Lumley turned back to his safe.
“There,” he said, quite rudely for him; “I hope you’re satisfied that’s the right one.”
Snaith took the frame and examined it minutely. Then he turned it over and looked at the back. For a moment he remained motionless, then he hurled it on to the desk and sprang to his feet with an inarticulate snarl, his face livid with rage and disappointment.
“You thief!” he yelled with a bitter oath. “You — thief! If you don’t shell out within ten seconds I’ll send you straight to hell!” and the appalled Mr. Lumley found himself gazing directly into the bore of an automatic pistol.
But at that moment there was an interruption. A quiet voice broke in:
“Now, none of that, Mr. William Jenkins — none of that. It’s on to you this time, I guess. Put it down and give in like a man when you’re beaten.”
Snaith, thunderstruck, turned to see the two Inspectors covering him with their revolvers. His jaw dropped. For a moment it seemed as if he were going to show fight; then slowly his fingers relaxed and the pistol fell on the desk.
“The darbies, Hughes,” went on Niblock; “and then we can put our toys away and have a chat.”
Snaith seemed utterly dumfounded, and he made no resistance as the sergeant first pocketed the pistol and then handcuffed him.
When he was rendered harmless, Niblock turned to Mr. Lumley.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said courteously, “for having had to submit you to this, but we had to let him demonstrate before witnesses that he was after the frame, and not the picture. Thanks to you, sir, he has done that pretty completely.” He turned to the prisoner. “I have to warn you, Jenkins, that whatever you say may be used in evidence against you, but at the same time, if you wish to make a statement I will take it.”
The prisoner, apparently stupefied at the sudden turning of the tables, made no reply.
“In that case,” Niblock resumed, “we had better get away. With your permission, we’ll take the picture and frame, Mr. Lumley, and later explain anything that may still be puzzling you.”
Two days later Mr. Lumley called at the Yard in response to an invitation from Inspector Niblock. There he met the two Inspectors and their Chief, as well as Lord Arthur Wentworth. As Mr. Lumley entered the room, the latter sprang to his feet and came forward with outstretched hand.
“And this is the man to whom I owe so much,” he cried warmly. “Allow me, my dear sir, to express my great gratitude and appreciation of your actions.”
His lordship beamed as he pumped Mr. Lumley’s hand up and down.
“But,” said Mr. Lumley in some embarrassment, “I can assure you, Lord Arthur, that I am still in ignorance of what I have done.”
“You will soon know all about it. Tell him, Inspector. You are better up in the details than I.”
“Mr. Lumley, sir,” began Niblock, leaning forward and tapping the desk with his forefinger, “your friend, Mr. Dobbs, valued that picture at about £40, and Snaith or Jenkins at £2,000.” The Inspector’s voice became very impressive. “They were both wrong. The actual value of that picture was £45,000!”
Mr. Lumley gasped.
“And would you like to see what gave it its value?” went on Niblock, evidently relishing mightily the sensation he was creating. He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a little box, and out of it poured on to the table what seemed a stream of silvery light.
“Pearls! A necklace!” ejaculated Mr. Lumley.
“A necklace, yes,” went on Niblock. “More than that. The necklace. Lady Wentworth’s celebrated pearl necklace, valued at £45,000, and which was stolen from her over six months ago.”
“I remember,” cried Mr. Lumley helplessly. “I read of it at the time. But how—?” He looked his question.
“I’ll tell you, sir. Some nine or ten months ago Lord Arthur took on a footman, a young man named William Jenkins. He proved himself a capable servant, and seemed eminently respectable and trustworthy. He was your Silas S. Snaith.
“Some three months after he arrived, there was a big dance at Wentworth Hall, at which her ladyship intended to wear her necklace. Lord Arthur took it from his safe and handed it to her about 7 p.m. She did not wear it at dinner, which was a comparatively hurried affair, but left it in a drawer of her dressing-table. When she went up about 8:30 to dress for the ball it was gone.