He was able to return to his room unobserved. It was less than a half hour afterward that he received his call from the two detectives.
Although he was anxious to get on the links again and breathe the air of the pine woods, he was careful not to undo his artistic preparations. It was noticed that no more drink was sent to his room. There came instead ice water and strong coffee. He was getting over it, they said. Two days later he was out on the links and made a peculiarly bad round, taking ten more strokes than usual. Dangerfield watched him from the piazza. One of his arms was in a sling.
“Cut the rough stuff out,” said Dangerfield, “that’s the second time you topped your ball.”
Trent passed a hand across his face, possibly to hide a smile.
“I guess I’ll have to,” he returned simply. “It was that damned heat wave that got me going.”
It happened that the Dangerfields and Trent returned to New York on the same train. Devlin and O’Brien were in attendance. Trent noticed that when Devlin’s eye fell on the golf bag over his shoulder he frowned. So far the ruby had not been recovered and here was a piece of baggage that might hold crown jewels. Over Devlin’s broad shoulders his master’s golf bag was suspended. Cheerily and with respect he approached the crack player.
“Let me hold your golf bag, sir,” he said with a ready smile. “I’ll put it on the train for you.”
Trent relinquished it with relief. “Thank you,” he returned, “it will be a help.”
He had long ago noticed that his own bag and Dangerfield’s were alike save for the initials. They were both of white canvas, bound with black leather. Watching the smiling Devlin with a well-disguised curiosity, he saw that Dangerfield’s bag had been substituted for his own. Devlin had done exactly as Trent expected him to do and had, in the doing of it, saved him much trouble.
There were not many people in his Pullman. Dangerfield had his private car. None saw Anthony Trent open the ball pouch on the Dangerfield bag and extract therefrom an aged and somewhat dented ball. He balanced it almost lovingly in his hand. Never in the history of the great game had a ball been seen with the worth of this one. And yet he had so cunningly extracted its core and repaired it when once the Mount Aubyn ruby was nestling in its strange home that detection was unlikely, even were an examination made. A porter had the Dangerfield bag and Trent’s suitcase when Devlin came up to him. He was no longer obliging. He had spent wearisome hours in the privacy of the Dangerfield car examining every part of the Trent impedimenta. The task had wearied him and had been fruitless.