# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 18/Number 4/The Queen of Sheba's Belt

from Red Book magazine, Feb. 1912, pp. 712–724. Accompanying illustrations by John newton Howitt may be omitted
The Queen of Sheba's Belt
BY EDGAR WALLACE
WE called Rensell “Annie” because he had a long and a melancholy face which bore some resemblance to that of the cook-general who combined with her high office the post of serving-maid at Seveidge's Boarding Establishment.
This was in the old days when we were all students together at the University, and before Annie threw up science and went out to India to be a policeman.
He was seven years in India, and we heard very little about him, and that little, we imperfectly appreciated.
We knew that he was engaged in more or less mysterious work connected with the political side of police work, and I remember that somebody sent me a copy of the Times of India with a blue-penciled description of how Annie had saved the Rajah of Somewhere's life by unearthing a plot to poison his highness.
The exact particulars escape me for the moment, but I am under the impression that there was a woman in it and that Annie had done something very clever with a spoon and a reel of thread—but exactly what it was I forget.
The next news I had of him was that a political anarchist had thrown a bomb at him in Calcutta and I gathered therefrom that Annie had been sticking his long nose into matters which may have concerned him, but which certainly did not meet with the approval of those affected by his interference.
In a sense, such of us as had known him, found a new interest in his career after this happening.
That we included a detective of parts in our circle of acquaintance was a subject, if not exactly for congratulation, at least for interest.
Those who are best able to judge the qualities of our friend—Indian officials, judges and political chiefs—speak of Annie's work in terms of the highest respect. It would seem, in fact, that in the very shortest space of time he placed himself on a level with the most astute chiefs of the Criminal Investigation Department in India, and, moreover, accomplished this, handicapped with very little knowledge of the languages of the great empire.
I am speaking now of his earlier achievements; it is a fact that he did acquire a very extensive knowledge of Indian dialects.
You know how easy it is for youthful friends to drift apart, and for “Jack” to become “Mister,” and especially was this so in my case, for although “Annie” and I had been friends, had shared slight confidences and had been mutually interested in the remnants of our month's allowances, we were so far disassociated by time and distance that on one occasion when I was asked to give a letter of introduction to him, I hesitated, wondering whether I could still describe him as a friend. It was soon after this that I had a letter from him, telling me that he was coming home on leave, asking me if I was still unmarried, and, if I was, whether I could fix up diggings for him.
I was delighted to reply that I should be glad to fix up some rooms for him. This I did, for I was staying with some very nice people in Kensington who had, fortunately, a suite available.
It was a remarkable coincidence that soon after this I began to hear more about him than I had heard in the whole of the seven years.
My work brought me a great deal into touch with Anglo-Indians, and never a day seemed to pass but I learnt of some brilliant little exploit of his in the realms of crime detection and crime prevention.
He arrived in June, scarcely changed.
He had still the same melancholy cast of features, the same immobile face—a little browner, perhaps, but not looking a day older.
A cigarette dropped limply from his mouth when he came lounging into my office—I had not been able to meet him at the station—and the stray end of his badly-tied cravat hung brazenly over his waistcoat.
“'Lo,” he said with the air of indolence which was peculiarly his. He offered a thin hand and grasped mine with a twenty-pound grip, which was utterly at variance with his air of languor.
He was the sort of man who had the rare faculty for picking up the thread of a friendship exactly where he left it, and we found ourselves ragging each other just as though we still shared a small sitting-room at Seveidge's and the seven years' interval had never occurred.
His shrewdness, his extraordinary powers of observation, his brilliant simplicity, astounded me.
He spoke very little of his work in India, and I might never have realized the extent of his services but for the remarkable happenings at the Manufacturing Jewelers' Association—and but for the Queen of Sheba's Belt.
We were talking about crime detection one night when Annie was in his best form. We sat in my room over our pipes; I was endeavoring to draw him out.
“Crime in this country is Easy Money,” he said, and shook his head regretfully. “If a burglary is committed you search for certain characteristics. If a ladder is used to effect an entrance, you lock for A. B. or C. D.; if an entrance is gained by the butler's pantry you arrest E. F. or G. H. Criminals classify themselves in well defined groups, and the police have only to probe one group long enough and deep enough to come upon the criminal.”
“But murder?” I asked.
“Murder is eccentric, I grant,” he replied; “but then in this law-abiding country the man who commits a murder usually gives himself up to the police or runs away, both of which courses are pretty fatal to his chance of dying of old age.”
He knocked his pipe out on the fender—he was a most untidy man—and sighed.
“Look here.”
He rose and left the room leaving me in a condition of piquant anticipation.
He returned in a few moments bringing with him a small box of cedar-wood.
It was about six inches long, four inches wide and two inches deep, and as I took it into my hand I was mostly impressed by its commonplace character.
Indeed, it looked like a well finished cigar-box, but being prepared for extraordinary things, I examined it carefully, tapped it, and, I believe, even went so far as to smell it!
He smiled.
“Suppose you went to search the house of a suspect,” he said, and put the box on the table, “a man believed to be privy to an anarchistic plot, and you saw this box on the table—you'd open it in your search for compromising documents, wouldn't you?”
I nodded.
“Well, open it.”
I rose from my chair, and lifted the lid.
When I say “lifted,” perhaps that does not describe what happened, for as I slipped the little metal catch which fastened it, the lid flew open, for the box was crammed full of letters!
Annie enjoyed my astonishment, loudly.
“Rum, isn't it?” he asked.
He took the box from my hand and closed it, placing the little casket on the table.
“Of course, the owner of the box swore that he knew nothing about it—charged my inspector with having concealed the letters himself.”
Annie paused and puffed away at his pipe.
“And he had,” he said tersely; “did you see me put 'em in?”
“I must confess that I didn't,” I admitted.
Annie smiled again.
“I saw the inspector,” he said cheerfully. “You see things very quickly in our service.”
“What did you do?”
“Well,” explained Annie slowly, “it was a delicate position—I couldn't very well turn down one of my own men, could I? I just closed the box as you saw me close it a minute ago, put it down on the table and temporized. By and by—'Hand me that box, Lal Singh,' I said to the inspector, and he lifted it up—by the way, open that box again.”
I did as he told me—it was empty!
Not a sign or a vestige of a letter was there to be seen.
Annie was amused.
“I took 'em out—did you see me?” he asked, then went on to tell of the discomfiture of Lal Singh. “That sort of thing crops up—you can't avoid it.”
In his slow, hesitating way he told me story after story of modern police work. Some were amusing, some were horribly gruesome, not a few were unprintable.
“So you see,” said Annie with a yawn, “work on our side takes a bit of getting through. You have to be prepared for the very unlikely and grapple with the impossible. Here, all your crime is cut and dried; you know when it is coming along and you're prepared for it.”
“Motive is concentrated in England; in India it is different. You might 'find a motive for a crime other than robbery, and find a dozen men who had the same motive—and then again you take such extraordinary precautions.” He put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a letter.
“Read this,” he said.
I took it. It was a half-sheet of common note-paper, and bore no address or date. It ran:
    This is to warn you that an attempt will be made to-morrow to abstract certain joolry. Be kareful about your workmen.
A Friend.
It was obvious that the writer had sought to disguise his handwriting.
“How did you get this?” I asked.
“It was given to me to-day by the secretary of the Manufacturing Jewelers' Association,” he said. “I know the managing director of the firm—met him in India.”
He folded up the letter and put it away.
“It was written by an educated person,” he said, tapping his pocket. “One needn't be a magazine detective to know that criminals do not spell 'careful' with a 'k' or write 'jewelry' as 'joolry' and at the same time employ words like 'abstract.'”
The Manufacturing Jewelers' Association had recently removed their great works from Birmingham to London—to Lewisham, to be exact—and I remembered reading somewhere of the wonderful collection of ancient jewelry which they had exhibited at the official opening of the works a few weeks before.
I mentioned this fact to Annie and he nodded.
“That's the devil of it,” he said, and relit his pipe. “This is the whole story, so far as I understood it. One J. M. A. is apparently the nineteen-gun-salute firm of the trade, and they've removed their works from Edinburgh to London for reasons which have nothing to do with the case, except that they are most anxious that their business should have a big boom.
“Well, apparently they've had it. I read a column about it the other day in the Morning Post. They had an ancient jewelry exhibition which attracted the archæologists of Europe, and to-morrow they are entertaining the Guild of Science.”
I nodded.
“Other attractions, too numerous to mention,” Annie went on, “are promised, but in the meantime—”
He tapped his pocket again.
“It seems a simple matter,” I said; “they've only to get a few plain-clothes officers—”
He shook his head.
“That is impossible. The managing director—you probably know Sir Philip Gower—he says it is impossible, and I agree. If the members of the Guild weren't coming it would be simple, but their presence makes the plain-clothes man an absolute impossibility. You see,” he went on, “it might leak out—get into the papers: 'Guild of Science watched by detectives'—fine bill for the newspapers—what?”
He shook his head again.
“No,” he said. ““Gower's plan is best; he has asked me down—you can come, too, if you promise to steal nothing.”
I grinned dubiously at the harmless little joke and agreed.
The works of the Manufacturing Jewelers' Association are, as I have said, at Lewisham, occupying an extensive acreage on the banks of the tiny Ravensbourne—that historical rivulet.
We had no difficulty in finding the place; we might, as a matter of fact, have ridden thither for there were a dozen carriages waiting at Lewisham Station to convey the members of the Guild of Science to the factory. We walked, however, and on the way Annie explained to me what I had not known, that the Guild was an odd mixture of genuine scientists and fashionable folk who affected scientific leanings.
“So if you want to put 'F.G.S.' after your name,” he said, “I'll be able to introduce you to Lord Knitborough, who is the president of the Guild, and is something of a whale on scarabs.”
“Thank you,” I replied; “I've got all the archæology I want.”
We entered the big gates of the factory and were shown to the offices of the association.
A large room near the gate had been decorated with flags and bunting and a big red carpet spread and in this the managing director was receiving his guests.
We did not join the party, but, under the guidance of a clerk who had evidently been instructed to take charge of us, we made our way to the board-room and sat down to await Sir Philip Gower's coming.
In ten minutes he came bustling in, a short, stout, red-faced man with a ready smile, and shook hands energetically.
Annie introduced me.
“Ah,” he smiled, “all you famous detectives have a biographer handy, eh? Glad to meet you, Mr. Staines.”
He turned abruptly from me to my companion.
“I'm sorry to bring you down on an errand like this,'” he said apologetically. “Of course nobody is going to steal anything, but we've got half a million pounds worth of old jewelry—most of which is only lent to us—and I'm afraid we've been very careless about it. It is going back to town to-morrow—we decided that at a meeting we had yesterday.”
“Seems a fairly intelligent scheme,” said Annie dryly, “and in the meantime—?”
“In the meantime,” said Sir Philip, “I want you to be here—in case. You see,” he continued quickly, “we can't afford to offend any of these people who are here to-day—only twenty have turned up, thank Heaven!—because they are really top notch, and if they knew they were being watched it would do us no end of harm.”
“I see,” said Annie. “Now you can take us along and introduce us.”
They were, in Annie's expressive language, a scratch lot. Nine of the twenty were ladies, of the average smart-woman type; the rest were men, only two being what I would describe as typical scientists, the remainder being of that class which anarchistic orators refer to as the “idle rich.”
Lady Knitborough was a strikingly beautiful woman of thirty, but perhaps the most remarkable member of the party was Lord Knitborough himself.
He was, I should say, about forty-five years of age, very tall, and the sallowness of his complexion suggested that he had spent some period of his life in a fever country. Such was the case, I afterwards discovered. He had been governor of a West African state as a young man, not a particularly important post for a man of his attainments to secure, but the Knitboroughs were a poor family and possessed little or no political influence.
He had a passion for archæology—you learnt that in a minute—and he talked volubly, almost excitedly, of a “find” he had made—it was an Assyrian amphora or something of the sort.
That there was perfect sympathy between him and his wife was easy enough to see. The hungry eyes which sought her face for approval, and the tender little smile which rewarded him, were eloquent of the complete understanding which was theirs.
I was impressed by these two because it so happened that the party, as it was being shown round the works, split up into four sections, and they were in the group which included me.
Only those who have been bored by being piloted through a factory, in which they have no interest, by an enthusiast to whom every aspect of the business has some especial beauty, will realize how wearisome that journey was.
Our guide was a young chemist attached to the laboratory.
“This is the office where the men are checked and sometimes searched— This is the weigh house where all the raw material is weighed on the cart outside— This is the men's luncheon room; you will see the kitchens— Here is the refinery—”
There was a tedious little delay because one of the ladies of the party wanted the weigh bridge explained. I know of nothing so annoying as the ignorance of other people on the subjects with which one is familiar, and I chafed whilst the courteous guide explained that the steel platform flush with the ground was the “bridge” on which the metal was weighed, and that the weighing apparatus itself was inside the little house out of sight.
We had several such waits, for the average scientist is very dense on elementary topics.
And so we meandered on until I found myself hard put to it to stop yawning.
At last, however, the tour of the purely mechanical side of the work was completed.
I thought Lady Knitborough looked unusually pale as we stood outside the door of the big strong-room wherein the ancient was stored and displayed.
“I'm afraid you have found this inspection rather fatiguing,” I said.
She turned quickly with the air of one who had been startled by an unexpected sound.
“No—yes—I am rather,” she said, a little breathlessly. “It was close in the jewelry refining-room.”
She half turned away as though to end the conversation, and thinking she was ill, and adverse to talking, I said no more.
Annie was engaged in an animated conversation with Lord Knitborough, the burden of which, so far as I could hear from the scraps which came my way, related to India and sport. I was edging towards them when Sir Philip arrived with the keys and the party passed in, Annie and I being the last to enter.
I have referred to this room as a “strong-room.” It was not that in the ordinary sense, being built of masonry, and filled with a large safe which was built into a solid column of stone in the center.
It was a fairly large room and round its sides a plain, broad wooden shelf had been erected. This had been covered with blue velvet and on this were spread the priceless trinkets which were the delight of the long dead beauties of the past age.
Annie took it all in with one glance.
“Curious, isn't it,” he said under his breath, “a king's ransom, and not so much as a glass case—When English business people are careless, they jolly well are careless.”
There was a perfect babble of talk as the members handled the wonderful jewels and voiced their admiration.
Sir Philip had here assumed the cicerone, and the larger group of visitors gathered round him as he explained the character of the various exhibits. He made a slow progress along the shelf, the interested members of the party following as slowly.
“This is, I think, the gem of the collection,” said Sir Philip, and lifted a belt from the bench.
Looking over the shoulder of Annie, who was just in front of me, I saw the jewel.
It was a belt made up of plates of beaten gold carved in a barbaric design. The plates were square and in each corner blazed a big ruby, as large as a three-penny piece. In the center of each plate, four diamonds were mounted in a row.
“This,” said Sir Philip, impressively, “is known to archæologists as the Queen of Sheba's Belt. As to whether it was ever the property of that Queen is very doubtful, but of its antiquity there can be no question.”
I saw Lady Knitborough take the belt from his hand and look at it, and her husband reach impulsively to take it from her.
“It is very beautiful—and very heavy,” she said in a low voice.
“It weighs nine pounds and three ounces,” responded Sir Philip with a smile; “you will notice that the plates are very thick—its exact value, intrinsically, is twenty-five thousand pounds.”
There was a little murmur of admiration, a confusion of talk as questions were plied and the belt was handed from one member to the other and finally replaced by Sir Philip on the shelf.
The party moved on from jewel to jewel until the whole collection had been carefully inspected. Some there were who went back to inspect at their leisure such of the exhibits as had excited their admiration—of these Lady Knitborough and her husband were a notable pair. Annie was frankly bored, and looked his relief when the strong-room door was finally passed and the three confidential: workmen, who had charge of the treasures, entered to store the jewels in their cases.
“There's a lunch if you'd like to go to it,” said Annie; “as for me, I am going to smoke.”
I should have followed him but for the fact that Lord Knitborough at that moment beckoned me. I had had a brief talk with him in our tour of the building, in the course of which I discovered that we had mutual acquaintances.
“Come here, Mr. Staines,” he called in his high, sharp voice. “I want to introduce you to my wife—eh, Aggie?”
If she had been pale before she was deathly now. I thought she was going to faint and she must have seen my alarm for she pulled herself together with an effort, and smiled.
“Do not be alarmed, Mr. Staines,” she said, but it was only her lips that smiled—her eyes spoke of a hidden pain. There is a very prosaic explanation for my pallor—I am hungry.”
We went into the workmen's dining-room, where a luncheon had been laid. I was separated from the two by the official who had prepared the plan of the table, and found myself between a chattering lady who spoke all the time about dogs, and an elderly scientist who worked out a table of resistance for the benefit of an uncomprehending neighbor, with the aid of a pencil borrowed from a waiter and the back of a menu card.
“I don't see Sir Philip anywhere,” said the lady on my left suddenly.
I looked up. The chairman's seat was vacant and I was wondering what had happened to our host when a waiter bent over me.
“Will you go outside, sir, and see your friend?”
I nodded, and with an apology to my fair neighbor made my way from the room.
I found Annie and Sir Philip in the directors' room, and I saw from the knight's face that there was something wrong. Annie closed the door behind me.
“You had better be in on this,” he said shortly; “the Queen of Sheba's Belt has gone.”
“Gone!”
My friend picked up something from the table.
“Why!” I cried in amazement, “there it is!”
He shook his head and smiled grimly.
“Looks like it, doesn't it?” he said, “but that's a fake—a tolerable imitation. This is what we found when the men went to pack it away—it is the work of an amateur, made of brass and glass.”
Sir Philip, the picture of tragic despair, sat huddled up in his chair.
“This is dreadful,” he said, with a groan; “the belt is priceless, and it was loaned to us by M. de Joelenberg, of Paris.”
“But how could the thief secure a copy?” I asked.
Annie took up the sham.
“Pretty easy, I should imagine,” he said. “The belt has been photographed and the picture has been in half a dozen illustrated papers, hasn't it, Sir Philip?” The director nodded his head. “It was easy enough to copy,” said Annie; “the design is simple. The densest amateur could have done it—I suppose there is no doubt whatever about your men?”
The knight shook his head.
“Terrible—terrible!” he said huskily. “This is the worst thing that could have happened—what can we do—for heaven's sake, Mr. Rensell, suggest something.”
Annie sat down at the table, his head resting on his hand.
“We can't ask them to submit to a search—we can't even jostle them and search them that way, because they may be carrying something bulky.”
He thought for another minute; then he got up.
“You go in to lunch,” he said briskly; “take Staines with you; keep them at lunch as long as possible; make a speech or something—I want a man you can absolutely rely upon.”
“Take Barton,” said Sir Philip and rang the bell; “he's the manager here.”
“He'll do.” Annie was still thinking. “I want a carpet and a camera—we passed a photographer's not three minutes' walk from here.”
Gower was undisguisedly bewildered.
“Do as you like, my dear chap,” he said, “but what on earth—”
“Off you go to lunch,” said Annie.
That luncheon I shall never forget; it seemed interminable. I had no appetite, yet I forced myself to eat for fear those near me would believe that something was wrong.
The worst case was poor Sir Philip Gower, whose duty it was to take an amiable and benign interest in the small affairs of his immediate neighbors.
He made the worst speech I have ever heard a human being make.
When he was not incoherent he was hopelessly commonplace, and his unfortunate audience groaned in the spirit as he labored on.
Suddenly he came to an abrupt end, and looking round for the cause I saw Annie standing in the doorway. He walked across the room to the chairman and bending down said something in a low voice.
Sir Philip nodded and rose.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have arranged for a photographer to take a photograph of all who have honored us with their presence here to-day, and who will, I trust, honor us with their company to-morrow, when I hope to afford you an opportunity of witnessing the new gold welding process.”
Then he sat down and the guests turned from one to the other with those smiles of self-depreciation peculiar to people who are about to sit for their portraits.
Outside, near the entrance gate, a big carpet had been spread and before this a photographer stood with a large camera. To the surprise of everybody, no group was attempted, but one by one the guests were posed by Annie himself, the photograph taken and the subject moved on to make room for another.
It was done very expeditiously.
“How very odd,” said the lady of the dogs to me, as she went to take her place—and that is how it struck me.
But there was a subtle flattery in the individual photographing which appealed to most members of the party.
Lord Knitborough seemed immensely pleased with the idea and chuckled hugely as he took his position.
The ceremony took very little time—it was all over in ten minutes although twenty people had been photographed.
As the guests were moving to the gate of the factory, Annie gave me a nod and I followed to the directors' room. He had a sheet of paper in his hand, and this he spread on the table.
“No. 1 was Professor Grill,” he said, referring to the sheet. “No. 2 was Lady Madleigh, No. 3 was Dr. Galsmanworth, No. 4 is Lady Knitborough—”
He recited the list through—it included me, for I had faced the camera uninvited by him and to his evident amusement.
We were joined very shortly after by Sir Philip.
“Now, Rensell, what does it mean?” he said. “Why did you insist upon their coming back to-morrow? I had to invent a reason on the spur of the moment.”
“Will they come?” asked Annie quickly.
“Oh, yes, they'll come—they have been interested—they may not all come back; does that make any difference?”
“Not much.” Annie shook his head. “If there is one amongst them that is guilty, he or she will return.”
“Why?”
“Put yourself in his place—conscious of guilt, would he be likely to make himself conspicuous by absence?”
“But what have you done?”
Annie smiled.
“You must trust me—and Barton,” he said, and smiled at the grey-bearded manager who appeared at the moment.
I did not attempt to sound Annie that night when we returned to our flat. I recognized how delicate a matter it was in which he was engaged, and refrained from putting any question which might possibly be a source of embarrassment.
And yet, as may be imagined, I was pre-occupied with speculations as to the fate of the belt. Who, for instance, would have ventured the theft of so priceless a relic even had opportunity presented itself? To sell such a well known treasure intact would be impossible; to remove and dispose of even the individual stones would be difficult, for gems such as they, were rare indeed. The thief must be an inexperienced criminal to risk so rash a theft—of that I was sure.
Even more perplexing, to my mind, was the manner in which the exchange had been made. Sir Philip had been positive in his belief that his three confidential workmen were guiltless; and they had been equally positive that no one save the members of our party had entered the room. Who, among that distinguished company, could have taken the precious girdle?
To my surprise, after dinner when we were sitting on the balcony which over looks Kilbrook Gardens, Annie opened the subject himself.
“You're wondering about Her Majesty of Sheba's Belt!” he said.
“I am,” I confessed.
“And whether I know the culprit,” he laughed softly. “Well, I don't.”
He laughed again and seemed to enjoy the joke.
“I confess I do not understand why they were photographed,” I said.
“Come inside,” and he led the way back to the room
He drew a chair up to the table and taking a sheet of paper and a pencil he made a rough sketch of the works.
“Now do you see?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“It tells me nothing,” I confessed and he stared.
“Well, well, well!” he said and his tone was indescribably offensive.
He pushed the plan away from him.
“How rum,” he said, speaking half to himself, “that a man gifted—”
He shook his head mournfully.
“There is only one explanation,” I said irritably, “and that is that you have discovered a method of taking X-Ray snapshots.”
I did not complete my sentence, for he burst into a fit of laughter.
“You'll be the death of me,” he said, wiping his eyes.
Early the following morning Sir Philip Gower called for us. He had the appearance of a man who had spent a bad night and his first words confirmed this view.
“I haven't had a wink of sleep,” he said, declining Annie's invitation to breakfast with a gesture of disgust, “and I don't want to eat. Candidly, Rensell, will you be able to get that belt back?”
“If one of your Guild of Science took it—I shall,” said Annie comfortably.
“Did the photographs tell you anything?”
“Photographs? Oh, Lord, yes! I°d forgotten all about them. No, I haven't seen the photographs!”
Sir Philip rose agitatedly and paced the room.
“I wish I understood this confounded mystery of yours,” he said, and I think his annoyance was pardonable.
We went down to Lewisham again and arrived an hour before the visitors. There were only two absentees. One was the aged scientist who had drawn diagrams on the back of his menu card and the other was a lady who was some relative of Sir Philip's and had been what he described the previous day as a “courtesy scientist.”
The day's program was very much the same as the previous day, except that we confined our interest to a purely technical lecture on gold-tempering and witnessed experiments which may have been highly instructive but which left me unmoved and uninformed.
Lord and Lady Knitborough had been two of the first arrivals.
I decided that the pallor I had noticed before must be constitutional. She looked ill and worn and there was that touch of sharpness in the face that fatigue and worry bring to the roundest of cheeks. Annie did not come to the lunch, which seemed to me, in my overwrought state, to be almost as interminable as the lunch of yesterday.
Sir Philip did not make a speech, but at the end of the meal he rose and offered his guests an apology. The photographs of the previous day had been spoilt by a defect in the lens. Might he ask them if they would again honor him et cetera, et cetera.
It was neat and humble and glib, and I recognized in its terminology the strong right-hand of Annie. Again we trooped out into the yard, again one by one we stood upon the blue carpet and heard the click of the camera—
It was time to go. Sir Philip, his face frozen to a smile, was shaking hands with the members of the Guild.
Lord and Lady Knitborough were walking towards the gate. when Annie came towards them.
“Lady Knitborough,” he said, and she stopped dead and faced him, and I saw her face was drawn and haggard. “Could you spare me a minute,” said Annie, and she walked with him into the directors' room.
He jerked his head for me to follow.
“My friend had better be a witness to what I have to say,” he said, and pulled a chair towards her.
She sat down, her lip trembling but her eyes fixed on him.
“You have the Queen of Sheba's Belt,” he said quietly; “it was stolen by your husband, and you brought it here hoping to replace it without anybody being the wiser.”
She nodded and stood up. She was wearing the long coat she had worn the day before. The days were cold in April.
She opened the coat.
About her waist sparkled the belt.
With shaking hands she unfastened it and handed it to Annie, who laid it on the table.
“Your husband is not quite—well?” said Annie gently.
She nodded again.
“All crime is madness,” my friend went on, “and sometimes insanity finds expression in the planning of crime—I am very sorry.”
He held out his hand, and she took it.
“He had forgotten all about it this morning,” she said in a low voice. “It is only sometimes—he—he—is like this.”
“I understand,” said Annie gently, and opened the door for her.
She hesitated.
“If—if Sir Philip must be told—tell him it was I who took them—tell him I had bills—”
She nearly broke down.
“Don't worry,” said Annie, and smiled. He had the sweetest smile of anyone I have ever known.
“How”—she hesitated and then tremulously finished the query—“did you know?”
“Well,” said Annie quietly, “in the first place, there was your note, you know.”
“You knew I wrote that?”
“I know it now, at any rate,” Annie returned evasively. “And I can appreciate your reasons for sending it. Perhaps, after all, it was of great help. As for the rest—well, why trouble, Lady Knitborough? Believe me, it was nothing anyone else would have noticed.”
She bowed her head in acquiescence. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “I can only thank you—and pray that the future may bring nothing worse.”
Faltering, she turned away; Annie followed and walked with her to the gate, chatting on the first subject that came into his mind. His lordship was waiting, cheerful, jocular—you could hear his high laugh above all the others.
“Thought you were never coming,” he said boisterously. “Good-by, Gower; had a most instructive day. Will send you a little pamphlet on scarabs—wrote it years ago.”
I watched them drive off, then turned and joined Annie and Sir Philip.
We went back to the office.
“Here's your belt,” said Annie, when the door was closed, and the managing director nearly fainted.
“No, I will offer no explanation,” said Annie, “nor will I tell you from whom I recovered it.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Sir Philip, and there the matter ended so far as he was concerned.
“For heaven's sake, tell me,” I asked Annie when we were on our way home, “how you discovered that Lord Knitborough had taken the belt—and more wonderful still, how you knew that his wife had brought it back.”
“Simple,” said Annie. “Didn't you understand the dodge of the camera and the carpet?”
“No,” I confessed.
“The camera,” said Annie with that smiling face, “was a scheme to make them stand in one place—there on the carpet—”
“Yes,” I said as he paused.
“The carpet hid the weigh bridge— My boy, Barton and I weighed every one of 'em!”
“But—”
“Don't you see, Barton inside the house, took their weight yesterday and again to-day. Lord Knitborough was exactly nine pounds lighter to-day than he was on the previous day—and Lady Knitborough nine pounds heavier. Nine pounds is the weight of the belt. Simple, isn't it?”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1932, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 91 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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