“We don’t know yet what’s gone,” he replied, answering her last question first. “The bulb of the lamp’s smashed in there”—he nodded towards the museum—“and until they bring a fresh one, we can’t find out what damage has been done. As to what happened, it seems rather confused at present; but I expect we shall get it cleared up eventually. There seems to have been a gang at work; and I’m afraid some things may be missing when we begin to look over the collection.”
“I wish I’d taken your hint,” Joan admitted, frankly. “It’s partly my blame, I feel, for neglecting your advice. I was silly to laugh at you when you spoke about it.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you, Joan,” Sir Clinton reassured her. “It was really only one chance in a million that anything of the sort would happen to-night. Besides, if we manage to nail this fellow that they’re all after, we may be able to get some clue to his confederates. Quite evidently there was a gang at work, and he may be induced to split on his friends if we can lay hands on him; and then we’ll get the stuff back again without much trouble, I hope.”
He glanced at her, as though to see the effect of his words; then, as his eyes caught her mask, he seemed struck by another idea.
“That reminds me,” he said, “we must get these masks off. Send someone round at once, please, Joan, to order everyone to unmask now. And have all the outer doors shut, too. It’s a futile precaution, I’m afraid; because anyone could slip out during the confusion when there was no light: but we may as well do what we can even at this stage.”
He removed his own mask as he spoke, and pulled away the false beard which he had worn as Prospero. Joan loosened her mask and went off to give the necessary orders. In a few moments she returned.
“Now tell me what did happen,” she demanded.
“There’s no one killed, or even hurt,” Sir Clinton assured her. “This ankle of mine’s the only casualty, so far as I know; and I expect I’ll be able to limp about quite comfortably by to-morrow.”
“I’m thankful it’s no worse,” said Joan, with relief.
“All I know about the business comes from Mold, here,” Sir Clinton went on. “It seems he was patrolling the museum at the time the thing happened, under your brother’s orders. Perhaps half a dozen people—under a dozen, he says, at any rate—were in the place then. Some of them were examining the cases in the bays; some of them were looking at the things in the big centre case. Mold doesn’t remember what costumes they were wearing. I don’t blame him. People had been passing in and out all through the evening; and there was no reason why he should take particular note of the guests at that special moment.”
Sir Clinton glanced up at the keeper, who was looking rather ashamed at his inability to furnish better information.
“Don’t you worry, Mold. I doubt if I’d have had any more to tell, myself, if I’d been there. One can’t be expected to remember everything.”
He turned back to Joan.
“The next thing that happened was a pistol-shot, and the light went out. Some light filtered in from the door of the room, for the lamps in the hall here were still blazing; but before Mold could do anything, someone gripped him from behind and got his wrists twisted behind his back. In the struggle Mold was swung round, so that he couldn’t see the central case even in what light there was. Then the lights outside were switched off and he heard a smashing of glass. There was a bit of a struggle, apparently; and then all at once he felt himself let loose. As soon as he got free, he lit a match and posted himself at the door to prevent anyone getting away; and he stayed there until the lights went on again. Then he made all his prisoners unmask and those whom he didn’t recognize himself he kept there until someone he knew came to identify them. They’re all people you know quite well, Joan. More than half of them were girls, who seem rather unlikely people to go in for robbery with violence, to put it mildly. Mold made a list of them, if we happen to need it. But I don’t think we’re likely to find the criminal amongst them. This affair was too well planned for that. The real gang have got clean away, I’m pretty sure.”
“And what about your ankle?” demanded Joan.
“Oh, that? I happened to arrive at the door fairly quickly after the lights went out. Just as I got to it, a fellow came dashing out; and I made a grab at him as well as I could in the dark. But one can’t see what one’s doing; and I didn’t get a decent grip on him as he charged out on top of me. He landed me a fairly effective kick—right on the ankle-bone, by bad luck—and then, before I could get my hands on him properly he tore himself clear and was off down the hall towards the front door. I hobbled after him as best I could; and there he was—a fellow dressed in Pierrot costume—running quite leisurely over the gravel sweep and making for the woods. I couldn’t go after him; but he was quite clear in the moonlight and he’d a long way to go before getting into cover; so I raised a hue and cry at once, and quite a crowd of stout fellows are after him. He’ll have to run a bit faster than he was doing, if he expects to get off. These pine-woods have no undergrowth to speak of; and he’ll find it difficult to conceal himself in a hurry.”
As Sir Clinton ended his narrative a servant came hurrying up the hall, bringing a tall pair of steps with him.
“Is that the new lamp?” Sir Clinton demanded. “All right. Light a match or two, Mold, to let him see where to put the steps. And don’t tramp about too much while you’re fixing them up, please. I want to see things undisturbed as far as possible.”
Chapter Four. THE CHASE IN THE WOODS
IN earlier days, Michael Clifton had been reckoned among the more creditable runners in the School Mile; and he had never allowed himself to fall out of training. Thus as he joined the throng of would-be pursuers emerging from the house, he felt a certain confidence that the fugitive would at any rate have to put his best foot foremost if he was to avoid being run down. Before he had covered twenty yards, however, Michael found himself handicapped by his costume. The full-bottomed wig dropped off almost immediately, and the shoes were not so troublesome as he had feared; but the sleeves of his coat interfered with his movements, and the long skirts hampered his legs.
“I wonder if these coves in the eighteenth century ever ran a step,” he grumbled. “If they did it in this kit, they must have been wonders. I must get rid of the truck.”
He pulled up and stripped off the full-skirted coat; then, as an after-thought, he removed the long waistcoat as well. While doing this, he glanced ahead to see how the chase was progressing. The light of the full moon, now at its highest in the cloudless heavens, lit up the whole landscape before him almost as clearly as daylight. Far ahead, he could see the white figure of the escaping thief as it ascended the long, gentle slope towards the pine-woods.
“I wonder what tempted the beggar to choose that particular costume on a night like this,” Michael speculated. “It’s the most conspicuous affair he could have put on. Well, all the better for us.”
The quarry had evidently secured a fair start, for the nearest group of pursuers was still a considerable distance behind him. The hunters were strung out in an irregular file, knotted here and there with groups of three or four runners; and the line extended back almost to Michael’s position. Behind him, he could hear fresh reinforcements emerging from the house, shouting as they came.
“They’d better save their breath,” Michael commented critically to himself. “That long rise’ll take it out of a good many of them.”
He settled down to his favourite stride; and very soon began to overtake the laggards at the tail of the chase. In front of him he saw a Cardinal Richelieu with kilted cassock; but the Cardinal found his costume too much for him and pulled out of the race as Michael passed him. Shortly after, Michael drew level with an early nineteenth-century dandy and for a few seconds they raced neck and neck. The dandy, however, was unable to stay the pace.