“He was,” quavered old Miss Mehitabel. “Montague and Bigelow were great friends in their younger days. Dashing young rascals they were, fifty years ago. But Montague was a scoundrel — a deceiver. I learned that to my sorrow, after he jilted me and left me broken-hearted, only a week before the day we were to be married.”
“Fifty years ago,” remarked Clavelock. “That is a long while. Where has Montague Rayne been since then?”
“He went abroad,” explained Egbert Doyd, in a tired tone. “He and Bigelow corresponded for some time. I believe that Bigelow received a letter from Rayne as recently as ten years ago. Or maybe fifteen.”
“What do you think, then, Egbert?” demanded Clavelock. “Could Montague Rayne have known of this box? Could he have come here to steal it?”
“Hardly,” returned Egbert, wearily. “My word! The old codger should have been dead by this time! Still, he may be alive, and spry enough to be plotting mischief—”
“He was a rogue,” put in old Miss Mehitabel. “Mark my words! The man was a deceiving Lothario. Very cunning, very crafty. He knew too much of Bigelow’s business.”
“But that was years ago,” reminded Clavelock. “Ah, what is this?” He received a picture that the old lady passed to him; then smiled and passed it around the group. “Here is the rogue himself — Montague Rayne, in his prime.”
The old-fashioned portrait reached Clyde Burke. It showed a long-faced man of distinguished appearance, with prominent, beakish nose and outthrust lower lip. Shocky hair and long sideburns completed the picture.
“Montague gained a post with a foreign legation,” remarked old Miss Mehitabel. “That was why he journeyed abroad. Later, he married a prominent Englishwoman. She died afterward; Montague went to India and—”
Clavelock was gesturing for silence. Clyde passed the photograph to the old lady; as he did so, he was making note of what she had said. It would be possible, Clyde knew, to dig up some other photograph of Montague Rayne. One that would probably be of much later date than the one which Mehitabel Doyd still cherished.
“OUR other theory,” declared Clavelock, “concerns a servant who was dismissed from this household shortly after the death of Bigelow Doyd. I refer to Myram, the butler. You mentioned his name, Theresa. Do you believe that Myram could have been the thief?”
“I do,” replied the girl. “Absolutely, Mr. Clavelock! I know that grandfather missed many articles that he had about the house — pieces of odd jewelry and souvenirs that he had put away. But grandfather was too ill to search for them. I suspected Myram, and after grandfather’s death I was sure that the man was guilty. So did Wilfred.”
The servant nodded solemnly from the corner. Clavelock paused; then pushed the quiz:
“You questioned Myram?”
“I discharged him,” replied Theresa. “After all grandfather had no rare possessions here in the house. Once he was dead, those trifling curios of his seemed of but little value. Myram had been in grandfather’s service for nearly twenty years. He had been faithful once.”
“I understand,” nodded Clavelock. “Apparently, then, Myram stole the ebony casket along with other trinkets. He must have known the secret of the table drawer; it is unlikely, though, that he knew that the casket contained a hidden scroll. What has become of Myram? Do you know, Theresa?”
“I have no idea.”
As Theresa shook her head. Miss Mehitabel began a protest, again asserting that Montague Rayne must be the thief. This time it was Egbert who interrupted. The sickly faced man spoke in an annoyed tone.
“Come, come, Mehitabel!” he interjected. “Your statement is preposterous! I am inclined to agree with Theresa. Myram is the man who probably stole the ebony casket. Dash it! I never did like that sly-faced butler.”
“We shall find Myram,” decided Clavelock. “I shall inform the police that we want the man for theft. I shall also start a careful quest for the ebony casket, in case Myram has disposed of it.”
“Why employ the police?” The querulous question came from Mark Lundig, who was glaring through his spectacles. “This is a matter for private investigation. We should employ detectives of our own.”
“I prefer the police,” returned Clavelock. “My decision is final.”
“Not so far as I am concerned,” insisted Lundig. “I shall hire detectives myself. Competent operatives. What is more” — he rose and wagged his finger, a gleam on his foxlike face — “what is more, I shall also consider Montague Rayne as a possible factor in this case. Perhaps Rayne visited here within the past dozen years. Perhaps he knew Myram and conspired with the fellow.”
“One moment, Mark.” Donald Shiloh had arisen. “Do you realize that you may be interfering with Mr. Clavelock’s plans? That it is not your part to handle this affair?”
“Who are you to object?” sneered Lundig. “Bah! You are not even a legal heir. Your status is still doubtful, Shiloh. You are an upstart—”
SHILOH’S fists clenched instinctively. Theresa gripped his arm; Shiloh subsided. Dropping back into his chair, he watched Lundig leave the room.
“Never mind him, Donald,” whispered Theresa. “He always was a trouble-maker. Mr. Clavelock can handle him.”
Clavelock was smiling dryly as Theresa and Shiloh turned to view him. Carning had jotted down Lundig’s words along with his other notes. Clavelock nodded approvingly.
“Let Mark Lundig do as he pleases,” decided the lawyer. “He has probably gone to telephone some detective agency. If he wants to waste money on such incompetent investigators, he is welcome to do so.
“I shall employ the law to locate Myram. If we find the fellow, he will willingly part with the casket — or tell us what has become of it — if we agree to drop the charges against him. Come, Carning, gather us those five lists and let me have them.”
Carning finished notations and picked up the lists, which people had dropped on the table. He began to count them, while Clavelock watched. Carning looked puzzled.
“There are only four lists here, sir,” he informed. “Are you sure that there were five?”
“I thought there were five.” Clavelock looked around as he replied. Then, with a shake of his head, he added: “Perhaps I was wrong. If Batesly were here, he would know; for he copied them. But it does not matter. The lists are useless without the scroll. Come, Carning, put away the four lists. We are going to my home; you can type your notes on the machine that I have there.”
While Carning was packing up, Clavelock turned to Clyde Burke and nodded that he wanted the reporter to come with him. A few minutes later, the trio departed, leaving Egbert Doyd and Miss Mehitabel drowsing in their chairs. Mark Lundig had not returned. Donald Shiloh and Theresa Doyd accompanied Clavelock to the door; there, Shiloh bade the girl good-night.
Clyde Burke overheard their brief conversation. It was terse — a question from Shiloh regarding Lundig; Theresa’s response that she did not mind the man being in the house, as long as Wilfred was there.
Clyde followed Clavelock and Carning down the steps. Shiloh joined them, chatted for a moment, then hailed a cab and departed. He had not kept his coupe waiting while he had been at the meeting in the old mansion.
Clavelock ordered Carning to hail a cab. While Carning was doing so, the lawyer spoke to Clyde Burke.
He offered to take the reporter in the taxi as far as Times Square; then he added an admonition:
“No word about this in the newspapers, Burke. Remember, I allowed you to be present on condition that you would print only whatever I permit—”