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Updated: June 11, 2025
Opening another book he saw it was "Palmerin de Oliva," and beside it was another called "Palmerin of England," seeing which the licentiate said, "Let the Olive be made firewood of at once and burned until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm of England be kept and preserved as a thing that stands alone, and let such another case be made for it as that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius and set aside for the safe keeping of the works of the poet Homer.
Do you remember his long dissertation on the law-abiding criminals of this little old country?" he laughed. "But a gunman," protested Mr. Kitson "by the way, have you had breakfast?" "Hours ago," replied Beale, "but don't let me interrupt you." Mr. James Kitson pulled his chair to the table and unfolded his napkin. It was almost at this hour that Oliva Cresswell had performed a similar act.
Oliva Cresswell rose with the final despairing buzz of her alarm clock and conquered the almost irresistible temptation to close her eyes, just to see what it felt like. Her first impression was that she had had no sleep all night. She remembered going to bed at one and turning from side to side until three.
"You've given the thing away," he growled. "Think they don't know what cement is? Now they have you fixed!" There was silence for the next minute while Stuyvesant studied some figures in his pocket-book. Then he wrote upon a leaf, which he tore out and told Dick to give it to Oliva. "Here's a rough statement of your account up to the end of last month, Don Ramon," he said.
Dick moved restlessly up and down the floor, examining the testing apparatus, but he said nothing, and Stuyvesant did not speak. He was a reserved and thoughtful man. After a time, Bethune threw the papers on the table. "François isn't much of a bookkeeper," he remarked. "One or two of the delivery slips have been entered twice, and at first I suspected he might have conspired with Oliva.
"He came to me, he was going to arrest me to-night, but I got him." "Sit down," he said firmly, "and try to be coherent, Hilda. Who came to you?" "Beale. He came to my boarding-house and wanted to know where you had taken Oliva Cresswell. Have you taken her?" she asked earnestly. "Go on," he said. "He came to me full of arrogance and threats.
"What do you mean, the bookshelf?" Beale nodded. "Half an hour ago I gave Oliva a book," he said, "that book is no longer there." "But in the name of Heaven how can a book save her?" demanded the exasperated Kitson. Stanford Beale did not answer. "Yes, yes, she's safe. I know she's safe," he said. "If Oliva is the girl I think she is then I see van Heerden's finish."
He turned round, jumped for the door, turned the handle and pulled, but it did not yield. As he did so he thought he heard a mutter of voices. "Open the door!" he cried, hammering on the panel. There was no answer. Then: "Mr. Beale!" His blood froze at the wild appeal in the tone, for it was the voice of Oliva Cresswell, and it came from the room he had quitted.
They were only asking what they had already assured themselves of obtaining. The queen's signature was indeed declared to be a forgery, and the La Mothes, Mademoiselle Oliva, and a man named Retaux de Villette, who had been the actual writer of the forged letters, were convicted and sentenced to the punishment which the counsel for the crown had demanded.
Oliva entered tranquilly, though his black eyes got very keen when he glanced at his sullen accomplice. He was picturesquely dressed, with a black silk sash round his waist and a big Mexican sombrero. Taking out a cigarette, he remarked that it was unusually hot. "You are doing some work on the town mole," Dick said to him. "Where did you get the cement?"
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