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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 supposed that Beau had!"
"How do you know?" I asked, aghast.
"By the way you looked at him--oh, half a dozen times."
"I had reason to suspect him," I said.
"What reason--except that you caught hold of his wrist in the dark, when he was probably doing just what you were doing, trying to catch Gussie in the act of putting it back?" asked Digby.
"I'd rather not say any more about it, Dig," I replied. "It's Beau's business after all, and . . ."
"Don't be a colossal ass," interrupted Digby. "Of course it's Beau's business, and that's what we are talking about. The more we both know, the more we can both help him--either to get away, or to come back. . . . If we knew he is guilty, which, of course, he isn't, we could draw red herrings across his trail; and if we knew he is innocent, which he is, we could lay for the real thief and catch him out."
"Beau doesn't want him caught out, evidently," said I.
"What--not if it's the miserable Gussie?" asked my brother indignantly.
"It isn't," said I. "And Beau knows it."
"Well--let's have those reasons, and we'll get to work," said Digby. "You needn't feel as though you were giving Beau away. There is no more harm in my knowing than in your knowing, and there may be some good. I am not asking you to tell Aunt, or the police, am I, bun-head?"
This was true enough. No harm could result from Digby's knowing all that I knew.
Moreover, if, as Digby assumed, Michael were shielding somebody else, presumably he would welcome any evidence that strengthened the case against himself.
"Well," said I reluctantly, "it's like this, Dig. . . . Beau went down to the drawing-room last night. I met him with the key in his hand . . ."
"And what were you doing, if one might ask?" interrupted my brother.
"Going to see if the 'Blue Water' had been returned," I replied.
"Anyhow, Beau hadn't returned it, had he?" grinned Digby.
"No--but at the time I, naturally enough, thought he had," said I, "and I suppose that fixed the idea in my mind. I first got the idea--naturally enough, again--when I caught his hand hovering over the glass cover in the darkness."
"Anything else?" asked Digby.
"Yes, the third reason I had for suspecting Beau--though I put my faith in him before all reason--was that I found him going to the brass box with a leather and duster to rub out the finger-prints he had made in taking and returning the key."
Digby whistled.
"Ingenious," he murmured. "As artful as our Auntie, if she had the idea. . . . Detectives would have the idea anyhow."
"I think she did have the idea," I said. "I believe she went straight from the drawing-room and polished all the finger-marks from the lid and front of the damned thing."
"And how do you know that Beau was on to the dodge?" asked Digby.
"He said so. He came into the hall with the cleaning-things in his hand, just as I was doing it myself."
Digby stared.
"Doing it yourself?" he said. "Why?"
"Oh, can't you see?" I groaned. "If Beau had been playing the wild ass, I didn't want his finger-prints to be found there, on top of the fact that I had been seen clutching his fist in the drawing-room."
"Yours were there as well as his," observed Digby, "if you went to the box for the key."
"Yes--they were," said I, "and they are there, alone, now."
"Stout fella," approved Digby. "I'll go and shove mine on too, and fog the Sherlocks. . . . But you really are a goat," he went on. "Don't you see that Beau was probably going to do precisely what you were doing? He was going to polish the beastly thing clean of all foot-marks, and then jab his own on."
"Why?" I asked.
"To shield the real culprit, of course," said Digby patiently.
"Yes--but why?" I repeated. "Why should Beau be a gratuitous ass and take the blame instead of--Gussie, for example? He'd have been more likely to nose him out and then slipper him well."
"Because he