about offering to sell the Tower of London.  There are only a very few people who buy such things, and every one of them knows all about it.  No dealer would touch it; he could never even show it, much less sell it, without being called to account.  So that it really seems more likely that it has been taken by somebody who wishes to keep it for mere love of the thing—­a collector, in fact—­who would then have to keep it secretly at home, and never let a soul besides himself see it, living in the consciousness that at his death it must be found and this theft known; unless, indeed, an ordinary vulgar burglar has taken it without knowing its value.”

“That isn’t likely,” Hewitt replied.  “An ordinary burglar, ignorant of its value, wouldn’t have gone straight to the cameo and have taken it in preference to many other things of more apparent worth, which must be lying near in such a place as Claridge’s.”

“True—­I suppose he wouldn’t.  Although the police seem to think that the breaking in is clearly the work of a regular criminal—­from the jimmy-marks, you know, and so on.”

“Well, but what of the two people you think Mr. Claridge suspects?”

“Of course I can’t say that he does suspect them—­I only fancied from his tone that it might be possible; he himself insists that he can’t, in justice, suspect anybody.  One of these men is Hahn, the traveling agent who sold him the cameo.  This man’s character does not appear to be absolutely irreproachable; no dealer trusts him very far.  Of course Claridge doesn’t say what he paid him for the cameo; these dealers are very reticent about their profits, which I believe are as often something like five hundred per cent as not.  But it seems Hahn bargained to have something extra, depending on the amount Claridge could sell the carving for.  According to the appointment he should have turned up this morning, but he hasn’t been seen, and nobody seems to know exactly where he is.”

“Yes; and the other person?”

“Well, I scarcely like mentioning him, because he is certainly a gentleman, and I believe, in the ordinary way, quite incapable of anything in the least degree dishonorable; although, of course, they say a collector has no conscience in the matter of his own particular hobby, and certainly Mr. Wollett is as keen a collector as any man alive.  He lives in chambers in the next turning past Claridge’s premises—­can, in fact, look into Claridge’s back windows if he likes.  He examined the cameo several times before I bought it, and made several high offers—­appeared, in fact, very anxious indeed to get it.  After I had bought it he made, I understand, some rather strong remarks about people like myself ’spoiling the market’ by paying extravagant prices, and altogether cut up ‘crusty,’ as they say, at losing the specimen.”  Lord Stanway paused a few seconds, and then went on:  “I’m not sure that I ought to mention Mr. Woollett’s name for a moment in connection with such a matter; I am personally perfectly certain that he is as incapable of anything like theft as myself.  But I am telling you all I know.”