His mind swiftly reverted to the
last woman he had seen cry, to Barbara Mackwayte discovering the
loss of the package entrusted to her charge by the woman who sat
before him.
"What murder?" he asked, striving to banish any trace of interest
from his voice. He loathed the part he had to play. The dancer's
distress struck him as genuine.
"The murder of Monsieur Mackwayte," said Nur-el-Din, and her
tears broke forth anew.
"I have read of this in the newspapers," said Desmond. "I
remember you told me he was a friend of yours."
Briefly, with many sobs, the dancer told him of the silver box
which she had entrusted to Barbara Mackwayte's charge.
"And now," she sobbed, "it is lost and all my sacrifice, all my
precautions, have been in vain!"
"But how?" asked Desmond. "Why should you think this box should
have been taken? From what I remember reading of this case in the
English newspapers there was a burglary at the house, but the
thief has been arrested and the property restored. You have only
to ask this Miss--what was the name? ah! yes, Mackwayte for your
box and she will restore it!"
"No, no!" Nur-el-Din answered wearily, "you don't understand.
This was no burglary. The man who murdered Monsieur Arthur
murdered him to get my silver box.
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