The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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am glad of that,” said Thorndyke. “I dislike exceedingly leaving an inquiry uncompleted. In fact, I should have completed the case for my own satisfaction and as a matter of public policy. For if Osmond stole these gems, the fact ought to be proved lest any other person should be suspected; and if he did not, his character ought to be cleared as a matter of common justice.”
“That is exactly my own feeling,” said Mr. Penfield. “And then, of course, there is the property. That ought to be recovered if possible, especially if, as you seem to think, it is still intact. And now,” he added, draining his glass and rising, “it is time for me to depart. I have to thank you for a most interesting and pleasant evening.”
As Thorndyke stood on the landing looking down upon his retreating guest, he was dimly aware of a presence on the stair above; and when he turned to re-enter his chambers, the presence materialized into the form of Polton. With silent and stealthy tread the ‘familiar spirit’ stole down the stairs and followed his principal into the room, where, having closed both doors with a secret and portentous air, he advanced to the table.
“What have you got under your arm, Polton?” Thorndyke asked.
By way of reply, Polton regarded his employer with a smile of the most extraordinary crinkliness and began very deliberately to untie the string of a small parcel. From the latter he at length disengaged a kind of leathern wallet marked in gold lettering with what appeared to be a tradesman’s name and address. This he bore, slowly and ceremoniously, to the table, where with a sudden movement he unrolled it, displaying a glittering constellation of metal buttons.
“Well done, Polton!” Thorndyke exclaimed. “What a man you are! Now, where might you have unearthed this relic?”
“I discovered it, sir,” replied Polton, blushing with pleasure like a dried apricot, “in a little, old-fashioned tailor’s trimming-shop in one of the courts off Carnaby Street. It is quite a well preserved specimen, sir.”
“Yes, it is in wonderful condition, considering its age. Mr. Wampole will be delighted with it. He will be set up with buttons for life. I think, Polton, it would add to his pleasure if you were to run down and make the presentation in person. Don’t you?”
Polton’s features crinkled to the point of obliteration. “I do, indeed, sir,” he replied. “At his private residence, I think, sir.”
“Certainly; at his private residence. And we shall have to find out at what time he usually returns from the office.”
“We shall, sir,” Polton agreed; and thereupon proceeded to crinkle to a perfectly alarming extent.
CHAPTER XVII
The Lapidary
In a small street hard by Clerkenwell Green is a small shop of antique and mouldy aspect, the modest window of which is so obscured by a coat of paint on the inside as to leave the unaided observer to speculate in vain as to the kind of wares concealed within. A clue to the mystery is, however, furnished by an inscription in faded gilt lettering on the fascia above, which sets forth that the tenant’s name is Lambert and that his vocation is that of a lapidary and dealer in precious stones.
On a certain afternoon a few days after his interview with Mr. Penfield, Dr. John Thorndyke might have been seen to turn into the small street with a brisk, decisive air suggestive of familiarity with the neighbourhood and a definite purpose; and the latter suggestion would have been confirmed when, having arrived at the shop, he pushed open the door and entered. A faded, elderly man confronted him across the counter and inquired what might be his pleasure.
“I have called,” said Thorndyke, “to make some inquiries concerning artificial stones.”
“Did you want them for theatrical purposes?”
“No. Those are usually cast or moulded, aren’t they?”
“Sometimes. Not as a rule. Can’t get much sparkle out of moulded glass, you know. But what was the class of goods you were wanting?”
“I wanted a set of imitation gems made to given shapes and dimensions to form a collection such as might be suitable for purposes of instruction in a technical school.”
“Would the shapes and dimensions have to be exact?”
“Yes, quite exact. They are intended to be copies of existing specimens and the settings are already made.”
Thorndyke’s answer seemed to occasion some surprise, for the man to whom he made it reflected profoundly for a few moments and then looked round at a younger man who was sorting samples from the stock at a side-bench.
“Odd, isn’t it, Fred?” said the former.
“What is odd?” inquired Thorndyke.
“Why, you see, sir, we had someone come in only a few days ago making the very same inquiry. You remember him, Fred?”
“Yes, I remember him, Mr. Lambert. Crinkly-faced little blighter.”
“That’s the man,” said Mr. Lambert. “I rather wondered at the time what his game was. Seemed to know a lot about the trade, too; but you have to mind what you are about making strass facsimiles.”
“Of course you have,” Thorndyke agreed, “especially when you are dealing with these crinkly-faced people.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Lambert, “But, of course, sir, in your case we know where we are.”
“It is very good of you to say so,” rejoined Thorndyke. “But I gather that you are not often asked to make sets of facsimile imitations.”
“No, not sets. Occasionally we get an order from a jeweller to duplicate the stones of a diamond necklace or tiara to be used while the original is in pawn, or for safety in a crowd. But not a collection such as you are speaking of. In fact, during all the thirty-five years that I have been in business, I have only had one order of the kind. That was between four and five years ago. A gentleman named Scofield wanted a set to offer to some local museum, and he wanted them to be copies of stones in various public collections. He got the shapes and dimensions from the catalogues—so I understood.”
“Did you execute the order?”
“Yes; and quite a big order it was.”
“I wonder,” said Thorndyke, “whether he happened to have selected any of the stones that are in my list. Mine are mostly from the Hollis collection. But I suppose you don’t keep records of the work you do?”
“I expect all the particulars are in the order book. We can soon see.”
He went over to a shelf on which was ranged a row of books of all ages, and running his hand along, presently drew out a leather volume which he laid on the counter and opened.
“Ah! Here we are,” said he, after a brief search. “Mr. Scofield. Perhaps you would like to glance over his list. You see there are quite a lot of them.”
He pushed the book across to Thorndyke, who had already produced a notebook from his pocket, the entries in which he now proceeded to compare with those in Mr. Scofield’s list. Mr. Lambert watched him with close interest as he placed his finger on one after another of the entries in the book, and presently remarked:
“You seem to be finding some duplicates of your own lot.”
“It is most remarkable,” said Thorndyke “—and yet perhaps it isn’t—but his selection coincides with mine in over a dozen instances. May I tick them off with a pencil?”
“Do, by all means,” said Lambert. “Then I can copy them out afterwards—that is, if you want me to get the duplicates cut.”
“I do, certainly. I will mark off those that I want, and, when you have cut those, I will give you a further list. And I may add that I should like you to use the best-quality strass that you can get. I want them to be as much like real stones as possible.”
“I should do that in any case for