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There could be no mistaking the red Lang-Yao whose brilliant tints kindled in the candle-glow. He lifted it tenderly, verifying the various points of Muriel's description, set it down on the floor and locked the safe. He was retracing his steps toward the conservatory and had reached the main hall when the creaking of the stairsteps brought him up with a start.
Wilton was apparently quite capable of taking care of himself in the dispute. "You talk about my stealing when you robbed me of my Lang-Yao bribed my servants to plunder my safe! I want you to understand once for all, Roger Talbot, that if that jar isn't returned within one hour, within one hour, sir, I shall turn you over to the police!"
The Lang-Yao jar was much too large to go into his pocket and not big enough to fit snugly under his arm, and as the walk was slippery he was beset by the fear that he might fall and smash this absurd thing that had caused so bitter an enmity between Shaver's grandfathers.
Father was very angry, for he had been led to believe that this vase was going to be offered at auction and he'd have a chance to bid on it. And just before that father had got hold of a jar a perfectly wonderful piece of red Lang-Yao that collectors everywhere have coveted for years. This made Mr. Talbot furious at father.
He effected a running pick-up of the Lang-Yao, and with this art treasure under one arm and the plum-blossom vase under the other, he sprinted for the highway, stumbling over shrubbery, bumping into a stone bench that all but caused disaster, and finally reached the road on which he continued his flight toward New Haven, followed by cries in many keys and a fusillade of pistol shots.
"If if" she began slowly, bending forward with a grave, earnest look in her eyes and clasping her fingers tightly "if we could only get hold of father's Lang-Yao jar and that plum-blossom vase Mr. Talbot has if we could only do that!" The Hopper swallowed hard.
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