Inside the booth, through the blurred reflection of my own image upon the glass, I discerned the outline of a man, in the adjoining booth: a smooth, dark head bent upon a slender hand, above which was visible an odd cufflink, two swastikas in red Roman gold. My call was answered by Prince’s old housekeeper.
“This is Miss Legree,” I said. Then came Prince’s voice: “What luck, Enid?”
“None,” I replied. “Penwick is away for the day, and I am glad that I left the Fierienti at home, although I am eager to solve a mystery. I overheard something about another Fierienti, whereas I know that there is no other. I will be at Brookchase by the four o’clock express, but can walk to the gate at the crossroads.”
Prince laughed, and as I rang off I clearly heard the voice of the man in the adjoining booth, repeating his number. He, in turn then, must have overheard me. Dismissing this as irrelevant, I went to the station and waited morosely until the afternoon express bore me back to the realization of being the poorer by one railroad fare.
Driving between bare fields, Prince said: “Don’t worry.”
“If a woman loses an eye or has a toothache it is quite intelligible,” I resented. “But if she collapses from nerves, or stares nothingness in the face, men tell her not to worry. I shall write to Cary Penwick tomorrow, and hand the Laughing Duchess over to him. He may sell it for what he can get.”
Prince flicked the colt to a trot, and said: “Better go slow. I’ve heard some queer things about collectors.”
“Things like old Mrs. Mace’s Romney, I suppose,” I said.
He jerked the reins abruptly: “What of it? There was an old Mrs. Mace in our home town who owned a Romney. Jove! I’d forgotten all about that. Why—” he stopped short, his brows drawn sharply into a frown. I related the story I had heard, but added that all collectors were not pickpockets. Prince, however, drove in thoughtful silence. “I wish you’d let me do more for you,” he began at the gate. But I ran up the path, laughing back at him.
At seven o’clock the unexpected again rang the telephone, and thought instantly visualized the voice as fat, florid and fed. The revolution was therefore complete when it said: “Cousin Enid, this is Cary Penwick. I hope you remember me. . . . Yes, my dear girl, twenty-five years! You would not recognize me.”