The vacant chair at her table reminded her again of Sir Richard Templeton. She concluded that he had been drawn into some other group, but a careful survey convinced her that he was not in the supper-room. She knew how he disliked these rather rackety functions—he had been reluctant to come at all, or had appeared so—and possibly he had gone upstairs to enjoy a quiet cigar in the Tower Room. . . . But more likely he had slipped quietly away, and would ring up later to confess his truantry and say good-night.
She glanced at the clock. The hands pointed to five minutes past eleven. Anything might happen now. . . . Once more she looked carefully around her, this time searching for the detective in the black monk’s garment; but apparently he had not come in to supper either. With forced vivacity, she turned to Sir Norman Parry, and, in desperation for a topic, asked him a question about the gold standard. He replied in his rich, soft voice, but she found it difficult to concentrate her mind on his remarks. And then she noticed that the music had stopped—stopped with a strange abruptness.
She peered up at the musicians’ gallery. From the position where she sat she could see nothing. Why this interruption? She was thankful that her guests did not seem to have noticed it, and she was about to send up a message of inquiry when with startling suddenness the lights in the room went out.
Exclamations of surprise could be heard on all sides. The whole place was in complete darkness. Waiters passing between tables were brought to a halt. And then a sudden laugh rang out in the silence, and somebody inquired who was responsible for the joke. A low murmur of relief went round the room, followed by a gust of laughter, and some hilarious spirit raised a cheer. When it died away a quiet voice began to speak.
At the same moment the bright beam of a torch cut through the darkness, and played up and down the room. The man who held it stood at the rail of the musicians’ gallery, looking down on the seated company. He was dressed in the garb of a monk. The hood was drawn over his head, and the face below it was concealed by a black mask, with two narrow slits for eyes. In his extended hand there glinted the barrel of a revolver.
The man spoke again. ‘If any one moves, I must fire.’ His voice was barely above a whisper, but every word could be heard in the farthest corner. There was a click: it was the key being turned in the door.
Gasps of terror and soft cries of dismay could be heard, and then a strained silence settled down—a silence that was broken by the quiet shuffle of feet. Two dark figures were moving rapidly among the guests. The ray of the torch flickered from table to table, following their progress. Now and then a word of direction came from the man at the gallery rail; but, for the most part, their instinct for loot that was valuable seemed to be unerring.
They were nearing the end of the room, however, when there was an interruption. At one of the tables a man jumped to his feet and, picking up the chair he had vacated, made a rush for the window, with the obvious intention of smashing his way through and shouting for help. But from the musicians’ gallery came the sharp crackle of the revolver. ‘Stop!’ said the voice from above.
The man had halted as the warning shot rang out. A figure rose behind him with an uplifted arm, which came down sharply. There was a soft thud, and he dropped to the floor with a groan.
Nobody knew exactly what followed, because the beam of the torch was switched off, leaving the room once more in a darkness that was impenetrable. One could hear a sound as though the door below the musicians’ gallery had been opened and closed again, and then there was stillness.
Presently the lights in the room went up, revealing the white faces of the guests. The masked figure in the gallery had disappeared. And at once a low clamour broke forth; it increased in volume, and cries and exclamations rose from every corner of the room. The wife of Otto Culross was clutching her throat, for the famous Culross emeralds were gone. From the head-dress of Lady Northcott, the big blue diamond was missing. Masaniello, the dancer, had been relieved of her famous pendant. Three other women had lost jewels amounting to a total of considerable value.
At her table at the head of the room, with face ashen and lips moving like those of a woman in a dream, sat Mrs. Prideaux.
‘Please keep your seats, every one!’
It was Inspector Tripp’s voice from the window. The warning had reached him a minute and a half too late, but he was in time to prevent a panic among the more nervous guests.
At the other end of the room the door was flung open, and Inspector Heyward appeared with two plain-clothes men behind him. Leaving his colleagues to guard the window, Tripp joined him, and they held a whispered consultation. The house was surrounded by an open cordon, and there was every chance that they might yet catch their man.
Heyward called out a name. It was that of the detective-sergeant, who had been mixing with the guests since nine o’clock. But there was no response from Burt.
‘Search the house,’ he whispered to the two men behind him. ‘Look out for Burt—he might be in difficulties.’
‘I’ll lend a hand,’ said Tripp, and Inspector Heyward nodded.
The servants outside the supper-room knew nothing of what happened. Immediately before the raid, word had been passed out that the service from the kitchen was to be suspended for a couple of minutes, until somebody made a short speech on behalf of some local charity. While the staff was assembling in the hall with faces now blank and terrified, Inspector Tripp hurried upstairs.
Lights were burning in the corridors, but all the bedrooms were in darkness. Heyward’s assistants would be searching them presently, but there was a strong chance that the man they sought had concealed himself upstairs, with the probable intention of joining the other guests at the first convenient moment. No doubt he was aware that the police had surrounded the house and his safety lay in mixing with the crowd.
Presently Tripp found a back staircase. A quick investigation told that it led down to the passage beside the musicians’ gallery—a convenient exit! Only in one of the rooms on the second floor did the detective find lights burning, and this was empty. Going up to the top floor, he noticed a narrow staircase leading to what appeared to be the Tower Room of the house.
He listened. The room above was occupied, for he could hear voices, and he went up the stairs on tiptoe.
As he neared the top he saw that the door was ajar. But the voices had ceased now; the occupants of the room must have heard his approach. Reaching the top of the staircase, Inspector Tripp entered, and found himself facing two men.
They were Adrian Lister and Sir Richard Templeton.
‘Inspector Tripp!’
It was Templeton who broke the silence, but Lister contented himself with a curt nod of recognition.
‘What on earth are you doing here, Inspector?’ inquired the barrister, his dark eyebrows slightly raised in wonder. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’
‘Afraid so, Sir Richard,’ returned Tripp. ‘You two gentlemen may be able to help me. There’s just been a raid downstairs. It’s Lord John, for a certainty.’
‘Lord John—a raid on the house?’ Templeton drew himself up. His eyes went to the man at his side, and Adrian Lister broke into a harsh laugh.
‘Pulled it off again!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it time some of you fellows at the Yard joined the pension list?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Got clean away, has he?’
‘I think not, sir,’ said Tripp quietly. His glance met Lister’s in a level stare. ‘I’ve got reason to believe he’s still in the house—and likely to remain so. The place is surrounded—I needn’t make any secret of it—and further reinforcements will be here as soon as two fast cars can bring them.’