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He'd accuse you or the Fleming estate of holding out the best pieces, and then offer to take what's left for about five thousand." "Well, that would be presuming that he knows the collection has been robbed," Cabot pointed out. "And the only way he'd know that would be if he, himself, had bought the stolen pistols." "Well, does anybody need a chaser to swallow that?" Trehearne countered.
Trehearne, and Gladys came over; one by one the rest of the group converged upon them. Then, when the good-by's had been said, and the promises to meet again had been given, they parted. One by one the cars moved slowly down the driveway to the road. Only Gladys and Rand, standing at the foot of the front steps, and the gingerbread-brown butler were left.
Rand stole a glance at his wrist-watch. It was nine five; he was wishing Stephen Gresham would put in an appearance. MacBride and Trehearne joined Pierre and the girls in showing him Gresham's collection; evidently they all knew it almost as well as their own. After a while, Irene Gresham ushered in Philip Cabot. He, too, was past middle age, with prematurely white hair and a thin, scholarly face.
"And Gresham was at home from nine twenty-two on," Rand added. "There are eight witnesses to that: His wife and daughter; myself; Captain Jarrett, here; and his fiancée, Miss Lawrence; Philip Cabot; Adam Trehearne; Colin MacBride." Farnsworth looked bewildered. "Why wasn't I told about that?" he demanded sulkily.
Adam Trehearne, who's the plutocrat of the bunch, isn't so filthy rich he doesn't know what to do with all his money what the tax-collectors leave of it and the rest of them have to figure pretty closely. The most they could possibly scratch together was twenty-two thousand.
And then, a great many matchlocks went into the West African slave and ivory trade, and were promptly ruined by the natives." "Yes, and I seem to recall having seen Spanish and French miguelet muskets that looked as though they had been altered directly from matchlock, retaining the original stock and even the original lock-plate," Trehearne added. "So have I, come to think of it."
"Well, has he ever told you about Maggie Adeane?" "I never heard of her." "Or Lilly Courtenay?" "That girl!" "Or Alice Layton?" "The red-haired Layton?" "Or Florence Cunliffe?" "Who was she?" "Or Millie Trehearne?" "She squints, Mr. Carter." "Or " "Stop, stop! What do you mean? What should he tell me?" "Oh, I see he hasn't.
Except when he emptied it of ashes and refilled it, it was a permanent fixture of his weather-beaten face. Trehearne was somewhat shorter, and fair; his sandy mustache, beginning to turn gray at the edges, was clipped to micrometric exactness. They shook hands with Rand, who set Hester back in her place. Trehearne took the matchlock out of Pierre's hands and looked at it wistfully.
Trehearne and MacBride, who had come together in the latter's car, left shortly, and half an hour later, Philip Cabot rose and announced that he, too, was leaving. "You haven't seen my collection since before the war, Jeff," he said. "If you're not sleepy, why don't you stop at my place and see what's new?
"Well, Gillis isn't exactly in a state of pure sanctity, himself," Rand commented. "As a suspect, the smart handicappers are figuring him to run well inside the money. For instance, you know, there have been stories about him and Mrs. Rivers." Gresham snapped his fingers. "Damned if there haven't, now!" he said. "You talk to Adam Trehearne.
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