It was not until Aline, having concluded her tale, added one more strand to it that she found herself treating the matter seriously.

“Father says he would give five thousand dollars to anyone who would get it back for him.”

“What!”

The whole story took on a different complexion for Joan.  Money talks.  Mr. Peters’ words might have been merely the rhetorical outburst of a heated moment; but, even discounting them, there seemed to remain a certain exciting substratum.  A man who shouts that he will give five thousand dollars for a thing may very well mean he will give five hundred, and Joan’s finances were perpetually in a condition which makes five hundred dollars a sum to be gasped at.

“He wasn’t serious, surely!”

“I think he was,” said Aline.

“But five thousand dollars!”

“It isn’t really very much to father, you know.  He gave away a hundred thousand a year ago to a university.”

“But for a grubby little scarab!”

“You don’t understand how father loves his scarabs.  Since he retired from business, he has been simply wrapped up in them.  You know collectors are like that.  You read in the papers about men giving all sorts of money for funny things.”

Outside the door R. Jones, his ear close to the panel, drank in all these things greedily.  He would have been willing to remain in that attitude indefinitely in return for this kind of special information; but just as Aline said these words a door opened on the floor above, and somebody came out, whistling, and began to descend the stairs.

R. Jones stood not on the order of his going.  He was down in the hall and fumbling with the handle of the front door with an agility of which few casual observers of his dimensions would have deemed him capable.  The next moment he was out in the street, walking calmly toward Leicester Square, pondering over what he had heard.

Much of R. Jones’ substantial annual income was derived from pondering over what he had heard.

In the room Joan was looking at Aline with the distended eyes of one who sees visions or has inspirations.  She got up.  There are occasions when one must speak standing.

“Then you mean to say that your father would really give five thousand dollars to anyone who got this thing back for him?”

“I am sure he would.  But who could do it?”

“I could,” said Joan.  “And what is more, I’m going to!”

Aline stared at her helplessly.  In their schooldays, Joan had always swept her off her feet.  Then, she had always had the feeling that with Joan nothing was impossible.  Heroine worship, like hero worship, dies hard.  She looked at Joan now with the stricken sensation of one who has inadvertently set powerful machinery in motion.

“But, Joan!” It was all she could say.

“My dear child, it’s perfectly simple.  This earl of yours has taken the thing off to his castle, like a brigand.  You say you are going down there on Friday for a visit.  All you have to do is to take me along with you, and sit back and watch me get busy.”