the strong-room. Mannering looked round idly. It was as near burglar-proof as a place could be. First the strong-room, with its lock that only gelignite or a key could open. Then the safes inside the room. Hm. If a man wanted to separate Lord Fauntley from some of his precious stones it would be a task worth doing - but as near impossible as anything in the way of cracksmanship. Cracksmanship. . .
The idea was there now, and growing apace.
Mannering felt tense and excited, and he could hardly keep his eyes off the peer’s fingers. Had ever a man had such an opportunity for learning the combination of a safe first-hand?
The place was as nearly burglar-proof as it could be, but there were flaws in the system, and not the least was Lord Fauntley’s memory. Fauntley muttered under his breath, and then lost his patience and grumbled aloud.
“Damn the thing! Sorry, Lucy, but I never can remember the numbers. I’ve a note of them somewhere - they’re changed every week, Mannering, just as an added safeguard.”
“And you need plenty,” Mannering said easily.
“I look after that,” Fauntley said, rooting through his pockets. He brought out a slim black note-book at last, flicked over the pages, and muttered, “Four right - six left - seven right - ten left - four - eight.” He snapped the book to, and returned it briskly to his pocket.
Mannering deliberately looked away from him, but the numbers were turning over in his mind. He could not stop them - he was by no means sure he wanted to.
“Four right - six left - seven right - ten left.” He’d lost the last two, but, providing he looked back in time to see Fauntley’s final turning, he could pick them up again.
His eyes felt hot, and his chest was constricted. With an effort he forced a smile as Lorna’s eyes looked into his, twinkling. What would these people think if they knew what was passing through his mind?
The tumblers were clicking over now. Left, they dropped slowly to ten. Right, one - two - three - four. Left, seven or eight, he wasn’t sure which, for Fauntley broke out: “That’s got him. It needs to be secure, Mannering, but you can leave that to me. My strong-room’s the nearest thing to perfection of its kind in London - and that means the world, let me tell you. For instance” - Fauntley reached for a large leather case in the safe that yawned open now, and made Mannering’s fingers itch - “you noticed I was careful to lock the library door behind us when we came in?”
“Yes.” Mannering looked calm, even though his heart was thumping.
“To warn the servants you were on the prowl?” mocked Lorna.
“Quiet, my dear. Also to cut off the alarms at the strong-room. I’ve left strict instructions that the library door must never be locked, because when it’s open any touching of the safe or strong-room would send the alarm of f - and it’s some row, I can tell you! Ingenious, eh?”
“Most,” admitted Mannering, and something more than the humour of the situation was gleaming in his eyes.
“Supposing a man came through the window?” asked Lorna.
“It doesn’t make any difference, my dear. I tell you the door’s never locked unless I’m here. Still, that doesn’t matter now. Mannering, have a look at these . . .”
While he talked, and while Mannering recovered from the effect of the ‘that doesn’t matter’ - could anything matter as much to him as that comprehensive explanation of the first essential for getting at the strong-room without sending the alarm off? - Fauntley had been manipulating the leather case. Now he unlocked it, with a key taken from a ring in his pocket. The light from the single electric lamp in the strong room seemed to shiver and give fire. The room was a blaze of twinkling lights, of gold and silver and a thousand colours that were never still.
The light shone on diamonds set in the black velvet of the case. A single-piece tiara held the centre, glittering and blazing; rings surrounded
The idea was there now, and growing apace.
Mannering felt tense and excited, and he could hardly keep his eyes off the peer’s fingers. Had ever a man had such an opportunity for learning the combination of a safe first-hand?
The place was as nearly burglar-proof as it could be, but there were flaws in the system, and not the least was Lord Fauntley’s memory. Fauntley muttered under his breath, and then lost his patience and grumbled aloud.
“Damn the thing! Sorry, Lucy, but I never can remember the numbers. I’ve a note of them somewhere - they’re changed every week, Mannering, just as an added safeguard.”
“And you need plenty,” Mannering said easily.
“I look after that,” Fauntley said, rooting through his pockets. He brought out a slim black note-book at last, flicked over the pages, and muttered, “Four right - six left - seven right - ten left - four - eight.” He snapped the book to, and returned it briskly to his pocket.
Mannering deliberately looked away from him, but the numbers were turning over in his mind. He could not stop them - he was by no means sure he wanted to.
“Four right - six left - seven right - ten left.” He’d lost the last two, but, providing he looked back in time to see Fauntley’s final turning, he could pick them up again.
His eyes felt hot, and his chest was constricted. With an effort he forced a smile as Lorna’s eyes looked into his, twinkling. What would these people think if they knew what was passing through his mind?
The tumblers were clicking over now. Left, they dropped slowly to ten. Right, one - two - three - four. Left, seven or eight, he wasn’t sure which, for Fauntley broke out: “That’s got him. It needs to be secure, Mannering, but you can leave that to me. My strong-room’s the nearest thing to perfection of its kind in London - and that means the world, let me tell you. For instance” - Fauntley reached for a large leather case in the safe that yawned open now, and made Mannering’s fingers itch - “you noticed I was careful to lock the library door behind us when we came in?”
“Yes.” Mannering looked calm, even though his heart was thumping.
“To warn the servants you were on the prowl?” mocked Lorna.
“Quiet, my dear. Also to cut off the alarms at the strong-room. I’ve left strict instructions that the library door must never be locked, because when it’s open any touching of the safe or strong-room would send the alarm of f - and it’s some row, I can tell you! Ingenious, eh?”
“Most,” admitted Mannering, and something more than the humour of the situation was gleaming in his eyes.
“Supposing a man came through the window?” asked Lorna.
“It doesn’t make any difference, my dear. I tell you the door’s never locked unless I’m here. Still, that doesn’t matter now. Mannering, have a look at these . . .”
While he talked, and while Mannering recovered from the effect of the ‘that doesn’t matter’ - could anything matter as much to him as that comprehensive explanation of the first essential for getting at the strong-room without sending the alarm off? - Fauntley had been manipulating the leather case. Now he unlocked it, with a key taken from a ring in his pocket. The light from the single electric lamp in the strong room seemed to shiver and give fire. The room was a blaze of twinkling lights, of gold and silver and a thousand colours that were never still.
The light shone on diamonds set in the black velvet of the case. A single-piece tiara held the centre, glittering and blazing; rings surrounded
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