The mystery of Angelina Frood 12 – Freeman · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The mystery of Angelina Frood 12The Prints of a Vanished Hand
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The mystery of Angelina Frood 12
The Prints of a Vanished Hand
FreemanEnglish
Mr. Bundy’s opinion that no particular significance attached to the finding of further relics of the missing woman was one that I was myself disposed to adopt. The disappearance of poor Angelina was an undeniable fact, and there seemed to be no doubt that her body had fallen, or been cast, into the river. On these facts, the recovery of further articles belonging to her, and presumably detached from the body, shed no additional light. From the body itself, whenever it should be surrendered by the river, one hoped that something fresh might be learned. But all that anyone could say was that Angelina Frood had disappeared, that her disappearance was almost certainly connected with a crime, and that the agents of that crime and their motives for committing it were alike an impenetrable mystery, a mystery that the finding of further detached articles tended in no way to solve.
I shall, therefore, pass somewhat lightly over the incidents of the succeeding discoveries, notwithstanding the keen interest in them displayed by Sergeant Cobbledick and even by Thorndyke. On Monday, the 25th of May, the second shoe was found (to Israel Bangs’ unspeakable indignation) by Samuel Hooper of Foul Anchor Alley, who discovered it shortly after high-water, lying on the gridiron close to Gas-house Point, and brought it in triumph to the police station.
After this, there followed a long interval, occupied by a feverish contest between Israel Bangs and Samuel Hooper. But the luck fell to the experienced Israel. On Saturday, the 20th of June, that investigator, having grounded his boat below a wharf between Gas-house Point and the bridge, discovered a silver-headed hat-pin lying on the shore between two of the piles of the wharf. Its identity was unmistakable. The silver poppy-head that crowned the pin was no trade production that might have had thousands of indistinguishable fellows. It was an individual work wrought by an artist in metal, and excepting its fellow, there was probably not another like it in the world.
The discovery of this object roused a positive frenzy of search. The stretch of muddy shore between Gas-house Point and the bridge literally swarmed with human shore-rats, male and female, adult and juvenile. Every day, and all the day, excepting at high-water, Israel Bangs hovered in his oozy little basket of a boat on the extreme edge of the mud, scanning every inch of slime, and glowering fiercely at the poachers ashore who were raking over his preserves. But nothing came of it. Day after day passed. The black and odorous mud was churned up by countless feet; the pebbles were sorted out severally by innumerable filthy hands; every derelict pot, pan, box, or meat-tin was picked up again and again, and explored to its inmost recesses. But in vain. Not a single relic of any kind was brought to light by all those searchings and grubbings in the mud. Presently the searchers began to grow discouraged. Some of them gave up the search; others migrated to the shore beyond the bridge, and were to be seen wading in the mud below the Esplanade, the cricket-ground, or the boat-building yards. So the month of June ran out, and the third month began. And still there was no sign of the body.
Meanwhile I watched the two professional investigators, and noted a certain similarity in their outlook and methods. Both were keenly interested in the discoveries; and both, I observed, personally examined the localities of the finds. The sergeant conducted me to each spot in turn, making appropriate, but not very illuminating, comments; and I perceived that he was keeping a careful account of time and place. So, too, with Thorndyke, who had now taken to coming down regularly each week-end. He visited each spot where anything had been found, marking it carefully on his map, together with a reference number, and inquiring minutely as to the character of the object, its condition, and the state of the tide and the hour of the day when it was discovered; all of which particulars he entered in his note-book under the appropriate reference number.
Both of my friends, too, expressed increasing surprise and uneasiness at the non-appearance of the body. The sergeant was really worried, and he expressed his sentiments in a tone of complaint as if he felt that he was not being fairly treated.
“It’s getting very serious, Doctor,” he protested. “Nearly three months gone--three summer months, mind you--and not a sign of it. I don’t like the look of things at all. This case means a lot to me. It’s my chance. It’s a detective-inspector’s job, and if I bring it off it’ll be a big feather in my cap. I want to get a conviction, and so far I haven’t got the material for a coroner’s verdict. I’ve half a mind to do a bit of creeping myself.”
Thorndyke’s observations on the case were much to the same effect. Discussing it one Saturday afternoon at the beginning of July, when I had met him at Strood Station and was walking with him into Rochester, he said:
“My feeling is that the crux of this case is going to be the question of identity--if the body ever comes to light. Of course, if it doesn’t, there is no case: it is simply an unexplained disappearance. But if the body is found and is unrecognizable excepting by clothing and other extrinsic evidence, it will be hard to get a conviction even if the unrecognizable corpse should give some clue to the circumstances of death.”
“I suppose,” said I, “the police are searching for Nicholas Frood.”
“I doubt it,” he replied. “They are not likely to be wasting efforts to find a murderer when there is no evidence that a murder has been committed. What could they do if they did find him? The woman was not in his custody or even living with him. And his previous conduct is not relevant in the absence of evidence of his wife’s death.”
“You said you were making some inquiries yourself.”
“So I am. And I am not without hopes of picking up his tracks. But that is a secondary matter. What we have to settle beyond the shadow of a doubt is the question, ‘What has become of Angelina Frood? Is she dead? And, if she is, what was the cause and what were the circumstances of her death?’ The evidence in our possession points to the conclusion that she is dead, and that she met her death by foul means. That is the belief that the known facts produce. But we have got to turn that belief into certainty. Then it will be time to inquire as to the identity of the criminal.”
“Do you suppose the body would be unrecognizable now?”
“I feel no doubt that it would be quite unrecognizable by ordinary means if it has been in the water all this time. But it would still be identifiable in the scientific sense, if we could only obtain the necessary data. It could, for instance, be tested by the Bertillon measurements, if we had them; and it would probably yield finger-prints, clear enough to recognize, long after the disappearance of all facial character or bodily traits.”
“Would it really?” I exclaimed.
“Certainly,” he replied. “Even if the whole outer skin of the hand had come off bodily, like a glove, as it commonly does in long-submerged bodies, that glove-like cast would yield fairly clear finger-prints if property treated--with dilute formalin, for instance. And then the fingers from which the outer skin had become detached would still yield recognizable finger-prints, if similarly treated; for you must remember that the papillary ridges which form the finger-print pattern, are in the true skin. The outer skin is merely moulded on them. But, unfortunately, the question is one of merely academic interest to us as we have no original finger-prints of Mrs. Frood’s by which to test the body. The only method of scientific identification that seems to be available is that of anthropometric measurements, as employed by Bertillon.”
“But,” I objected, “the Bertillon system is based on the existence of a record of the measurements of the person to be identified. We have no record of the measurements of Mrs. Frood.”
“True,” he agreed. “But you may remember that Dr. George Bertillon was accustomed to apply his system, not only to suspected persons who had been arrested, but also to stray garments, hat, gloves, shoes, and so forth, that came into the possession of the police. But it is clear that, if such garments can be compared with a table of recorded measurements, they can be used as standards of comparison to determine the identity of a dead body. Of course, the measurements would have to be taken, both of the garments and of the body, by someone having an expert knowledge of anthropometrical methods.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “But it seems a sound method. I must mention it to Cobbledick. He has the undoubted shoes, and I have no doubt that he could get a supply of worn garments from Mrs. Gillow.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke. “And, speaking of Mrs. Gillow reminds me of another point that I have been intending to inquire into. You mentioned to me that Mrs. Gillow told you, at the time of the disappearance, that she had been expecting a tragedy of some kind. She must have had some grounds for that expectation.”
“She said it was nothing but a vague, general impression.”
“Still, there must have been something that gave her that impression. Don’t you think it would be well to question her a little more closely?”
“Perhaps it might,” said I, not very enthusiastically. “We are close to the house now. We can call in and see her, if you like.”
“I think we ought to leave no stone unturned,” said he; and a minute or two later, when we arrived opposite the office, he remarked, looking across attentively at the two houses: “I don’t see our friend Bundy’s face at the window.”
“No,” I replied, “he is playing tennis somewhere up at the Vines. But here is Mrs. Gillow, herself, all dressed up and evidently going out visiting.”
The landlady had appeared at the door just as we were crossing the road. Perceiving that we were bearing down on her, she paused, holding the door ajar. I ran up the steps, and having wished her “good afternoon” asked if she had time to answer one or two questions.
“Certainly,” she replied, “though I mustn’t stay long because I have promised to go to tea with my sister at Frinsbury. I usually go there on a Saturday. Perhaps we had better go into poor Mrs. Frood’s room.”
She opened the door of the sitting-room, and we all went in and sat down.
“I have been talking over this mysterious affair, Mrs. Gillow,” said I, “with my friend, Dr. Thorndyke, who is a lawyer, and he suggested that you might be able to throw some light on it. You remember that you had had some forebodings of some sort of trouble or disaster.”
“I had,” she replied, dismally, “but that was only because she always seemed so worried and depressed, poor dear. And, of course, I knew about that good-for-nothing husband of hers. That was all. Sergeant Cobbledick asked me the same question, but I had nothing to tell him.”
“Did the sergeant examine the rooms?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes, he looked over the place, and he opened her little davenport--it isn’t locked--and read through one or two letters that he found there, but he didn’t take them away. All he took with him was a few torn-up letters that he found in the waste-paper basket.”
“If those other letters are still in the davenport,” said Thorndyke, “I think it would be well for us to look through them carefully, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Gillow.”
“I don’t see that there could be any harm in it,” she replied. “I’ve never touched anything in her rooms, myself, since she went away. I thought it better not to. I haven’t even washed up her tea-things. There they are, just as she left them, poor lamb. But if you are going to look through those letters, I will ask you to excuse me, or I shall keep my sister waiting for tea.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Gillow,” said I. “Don’t let us detain you. And, by the way,” I added, as I walked with her to the door, “it would be as well not to say anything to anybody about my having come here with my friend.”
“Very well, sir,” she replied. “I think you are right. The least said, the soonest mended”; and with this profound generalization she went out and I shut the street door after her.
When I returned to the sitting-room I found Thorndyke engaged in a minute examination of the tea-things, and in particular of the spoon. I proceeded at once to the davenport, and, finding it unlocked, lifted the desk-lid and peered into the interior. It contained a supply of papers and envelopes, neatly stacked, and one or two letters, which I took out. They all appeared to be from the same person--the Miss Cumbers, of whom I had heard, and a rapid glance at the contents showed that they were of no use as a source of information. I passed them to Thorndyke--who had laid down the spoon and was now looking inquisitively about the room--who scanned them rapidly and returned them to me.
“There is nothing in them,” said he. “Possibly the contents of the waste-paper basket were more illuminating. But I suspect not, as the sergeant appears to be as much in the dark as we are. Shall we have a look at the bedroom before we go?”
I saw no particular reason for doing so, but, assuming that he knew best, I made no objection. Going out into the hall, we entered the deserted bed-room, the door of which was locked, though the key had not been removed. At the threshold Thorndyke paused and stood for nearly half a minute looking about the room in the same queer, inquisitive way that I had noticed in the other room, as if he were trying to fix a mental picture of it. Meanwhile, full of the Bertillon system, I had walked across to the wardrobe to see what garments were available for measurement. I had my hand on the knob of the door when my glance fell on two objects on the dressing-table; an empty tumbler and a small water-bottle, half-full. There was nothing very remarkable about these objects, taken by themselves, but, even from where I stood, I could see that both bore a number of finger-marks which stood out conspicuously on the plain glass.
“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “Here is the very thing that you were speaking of. Do you see what it is?”
Apparently he had, for he had already taken his gloves out of his pocket and was putting them on.
“Don’t touch them, Strangeways,” said he, as I was approaching to inspect them more closely. “If these are Mrs. Frood’s finger-prints they may be invaluable. We mustn’t confuse them by adding our own.”
“Whose else could they be?” I asked.
“They might be Sergeant Cobbledick’s,” he replied. “The sergeant has been in here.” He drew a chair up to the table, and, taking a lens from his pocket, began systematically to examine the markings.
“They are a remarkably fine set,” he remarked, “and a complete set--the whole ten digits. Whoever made them held the bottle in the right hand and the tumbler in the left. And I don’t think they are the sergeant’s. They are too small and too clear and delicate.”
“No,” I agreed, “and the probabilities are against their being his. There is no reason why he should have wanted to take a drink of water during the few minutes that he spent here. It would have been different if it had been a beer bottle. But it would have been quite natural for Mrs. Frood to drink a glass of water while she was dressing or before she started out.”
“Yes,” said he. “Those are the obvious probabilities. But we must turn them into certainties if we can. Probabilities are not good data to work from. But the question is now, what are we to do? I have a small camera with me, but it would not be very convenient to take the photographs here, and it would occupy a good deal of time. On the other hand, these things would be difficult to pack without smearing the finger-prints. We want a couple of small boxes.”
“Perhaps,” said I, “we may find something that will do if we take a look round.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “we must explore the place. Meanwhile, I think I will develop up these prints for our immediate information, as we have to try to find some others to verify them.”
He went back to the sitting-room, where he had put down the two cases that he always brought with him: a small suit-case that contained his toilet necessaries and a similar-sized case covered with green canvas which had been rather a mystery to me. I had never seen it open, and had occasionally speculated on the nature of its contents. My curiosity was now to be satisfied, for, when he returned with it in his hand he explained: “This is what I call my research-case. It contains the materials and appliances for nearly every kind of medico-legal investigation, and I hardly ever travel without it.”
He placed it on a chair and opened it, when I saw that it formed a complete portable laboratory, containing, among other things a diminutive microscope, a little folding camera, and an insufflator, or powder-spray. The latter he now took from its compartment, and, lifting the tumbler with his gloved hand, stood it on a corner of the mantelpiece and blew over it with the insufflator a cloud of impalpably fine white powder, which settled evenly on the surface of the glass. He then tapped the tumbler gently once or twice with a lead pencil, when most of the powder coating either jarred off or crept down the surface. Finally, he blew at it lightly, which removed the rest of the powder, leaving the finger-prints standing out on the clear glass as if they had been painted on with Chinese white.
While he was operating in the same manner on the water-bottle--having first emptied it into the ewer--I examined the tumbler with the aid of his lens. The markings were amazingly clear and distinct. Through the lens I could see, not only the whole of the curious, complicated ridge-pattern, but even the rows of little round spots that marked the orifices of the sweat glands. For the first time, I realized what a perfect means of identification these remarkable imprints furnished.
“Now,” said Thorndyke, when he had finished with the bottle, “the two questions are, where shall we look for confirmatory finger-prints, and where are we to get the boxes that we want for packing these things? You said that Mrs. Frood had a kitchen.”
“Yes. But won’t you try the furniture here; the wardrobe door, for instance. The dark, polished mahogany ought to give good prints.”
“An excellent suggestion, Strangeways,” said he. “We might even find the sergeant’s finger-prints, as he has probably had the wardrobe open.”
He sprayed the three doors of the wardrobe, and when he had tapped them and blown away the surplus powder, there appeared near the edge of each a number of finger-marks, mostly rather indistinct, and none of them nearly so clear as those on the glass.
“This is very satisfactory,” said Thorndyke. “They are poor prints, but you can see quite plainly that there are two pairs of hands, one pair much larger than the other; and the prints of the larger hands are evidently not the same pattern as those on the glass, whereas those of the smaller ones are quite recognizable as the same, in spite of their indistinctness. As the large ones are almost certainly Cobbledick’s, the small ones are pretty certainly Mrs. Frood’s. But we mustn’t take anything for granted. Let us go down to the kitchen. We shall have a better chance there.”
The door of the basement staircase was still unlocked, as Mrs. Gillow had described it. I threw it open, and we descended together, I carrying the insufflator and he bearing the tumbler and bottle in his gloved hands. When he had put the two articles down on the kitchen table, he proceeded to powder first the kitchen door and then the side-door that gave on to the passage between the two houses. Both of them were painted a dark green and both yielded obvious finger-marks, and though these were mere oval smudges, devoid of any trace of pattern, their size and their groupings showed clearly enough that they appertained to a small hand. But we got more conclusive confirmation from a small aluminium frying-pan that had been left on the gas stove; for, on powdering the handle, Thorndyke brought into view a remarkably clear thumb-print, which was obviously identical with that on the water-bottle.
“I think,” said he, “that settles the question. If Mrs. Gillow has not touched anything in these premises--as she assures us that she has not--then we can safely assume that these are Mrs. Frood’s finger-prints.”
“Are you going to annex the frying-pan to produce in evidence?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “This verification is for our own information: to secure us against the chance of producing Cobbledick’s finger-prints to identify the body. I propose, for the present, to say nothing to anyone as to our possessing this knowledge. When the time comes we can tell what we know. Until then we shall keep our own counsel.”
Once more I found myself dimly surprised at my friend’s apparently unnecessary secrecy, but, assuming that he knew best, I made no comment, but watched with somewhat puzzled curiosity his further proceedings. His interest in the place was extraordinary. In a queer, cat-like fashion he prowled about the premises, examining the most trivial objects with almost ludicrous attention. He went carefully through the cooking appliances and the glass and china; he peered into cupboards, particularly into a large, deep cupboard in which spare crockery was stored, and which was, oddly enough, provided with a Yale lock; he sorted out the meagre contents of the refuse-bin, and incidentally salved from it a couple of cardboard boxes that had originally contained groceries, and he explored the, now somewhat unsavoury, larder.
“I suppose,” he said reflectively, “the dustman must have used the side door. Do you happen to know?”
“I don’t,” said I, inwardly wondering what the deuce the dustman had to do with the case. “I understand that the door of the passage was not used.”
“But she couldn’t have had the dust-bin carried up the stairs and out at the front door,” he objected.
“I should think not,” said I. “Perhaps we could judge better if we had a look at the passage.”
He adopted the suggestion and we opened the side-door--which had a Yale night-latch--and went out into the covered passage that was common to the two houses. The door that opened on to the street was bolted on the inside, but the bolts were in good working order, as we ascertained by drawing them gently; so this gave no evidence one way or the other. Then Thorndyke carefully examined the hard gravel floor of the passage, apparently searching for dropped fragments, or the dustman’s foot-prints; but though there were traces suggesting that the side-doors had been used, there were no perceptible tracks leading to the street or in any way specifically suggestive of dustmen.
“Japp seems fond of Yale locks,” observed Thorndyke, indicating the second side-door, which was also fitted with one. “I wonder where he keeps his dust-bin.”
“Would it be worth while to ask him?” said I, more and more mystified by this extraordinary investigation.
“No,” he replied, very definitely. “A question often gives more information than it elicits.”
“It might easily do that in my case,” I remarked with a grin; upon which he laughed softly and led the way back into the house. There I gathered up the two boxes and the insufflator and made my way up to the bed-room, he following with the tumbler and the water-bottle. Then came the critical business of packing these two precious objects in the boxes in such a way as to protect the finger-prints from contact with the sides; which was accomplished very neatly with the aid of a number of balls of plasticine from the inexhaustible research-case.
“This is a little disappointing,” said Thorndyke, looking at the hair-brush and comb as he took off his gloves. “I had hoped to collect a useful sample of hair. But her excessive tidiness defeats us. There seems to be only one or two short hairs and one full length. However, we may as well have them. They won’t be of much use for comparison with the naked eye, but even a single hair can be used as a colour control under the microscope.”
He combed the brush until the last hair was extracted from it, and then drew the little collection from the comb and arranged it on a sheet of paper. There were six short hairs, from two to four inches long, and one long hair, which seemed to have been broken off, as it had no bulb.
“Many ladies keep a combing-bag,” he remarked, as he bestowed the collection in a seed-envelope from the research-case; “but I gather from your description that Mrs. Frood’s hair was luxuriant enough to render that economy unnecessary. At any rate, there doesn’t seem to be such a bag. And now I think we have finished, and we haven’t done so badly.”
“We have certainly got an excellent set of finger-prints,” said I. “But it seems rather doubtful whether there will ever be an opportunity of using them; and if there isn’t, we shan’t be much more forward for our exploration. Of course, there is the hair.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “there is the hair. That may be quite valuable. And perhaps there are some other matters--but time will show.”
With this somewhat cryptic conclusion he proceeded with great care to pack the two boxes in his suit-case, wedging them with his pyjamas so that they should not get shaken in transit.
As we walked home I reflected on Thorndyke’s last remark. It seemed to contain a suggestion that the mystery of Angelina’s death was not so complete to him as it was to me. For my own part, I could see no glimmer of light in any direction. She seemed to have vanished without leaving a trace excepting those few derelict objects which had been washed ashore and which told us nothing. But was it possible that those objects bore some significance that I had overlooked? That they were charged with some message that I had failed to decipher? I recalled a certain reticence on the part of Cobbledick which had made me suspect him of concealing from me some knowledge that he held or some inferences that he had drawn; and now there was this cryptic remark of Thorndyke’s, offering the same suggestion. Might it possibly be that the profound obscurity was only in my own mind, the product of my inexperience, and that to these skilled investigators the problem presented a more intelligible aspect? It might easily be. I determined cautiously to approach the question.
“You seemed,” said I, “to imply, just now, that there are certain data for forming hypotheses as to the solution of this mystery that envelops the disappearance of Mrs. Frood. But I am not aware of any such data. Are you?”
“Your question, Strangeways,” he replied, “turns on the meaning of the word ‘aware.’ If two men, one literate and the other illiterate, look at a page of a printed book, both may be said to be aware of it; that is to say that in both it produces a retinal image which makes them conscious of it as a visible object having certain optical properties. In the case of the illiterate man the perception of the optical properties is the total effect. But the literate man has something in his consciousness already, and this something combines, as it were, with the optical perception, and makes him aware of certain secondary properties of the printed characters. To both, the page yields a visual impression; but to one only does it yield what we may call a psychical impression. Are they both aware of the page?”
“I appreciate your point,” said I, with a sour smile, “and I seem to be aware of a rather skilful evasion of my question.”
He smiled in his turn and rejoined: “Your question was a little indirect. Shall we have it in a more direct form?”
“What I wanted to know,” said I, “though I suppose I have no right to ask, is whether there appears to you to be any prospect whatever of finding any solution of the mystery of Mrs. Frood’s death.”
“The answer to that question,” he replied, “is furnished by my own proceedings. I am not a communicative man, as you may have noticed, but I will say this much: that I have taken, and am taking, a good deal of trouble with this case, and am prepared to take more, and that I do not usually waste my efforts on problems that appear to be unsolvable. I am not disposed to say more than that, excepting to refer you again to the instance of the printed page and to remind you that whatever I know I have either learned from you or from the observation, in your company, of objects equally visible to both of us.”
This reply, if not very illuminating, at least answered my question, as it conveyed to me that I was not likely to get much more information out of my secretive friend. Nevertheless, I asked:
“About the man Frood: you were saying that you had some hopes of running him to earth.”
“Yes, I have made a start. I have ascertained that he did apparently set out for Brighton the day before Mrs. Frood’s disappearance, but he never arrived there. That is all I know at present. He was seen getting into the Brighton train, but he did not appear at the Brighton barrier--my informant had the curiosity to watch all the passengers go through--and he never made the visit which was the ostensible object of his journey. So he must have got out at an intermediate station. It may be difficult to trace him, but I am not without hope of succeeding eventually. Obviously, his whereabouts on the fatal day is a matter that has to be settled. At present he is the obvious suspect; but if an alibi should be proved in his case, a search would have to be initiated in some other direction.”
This conversation brought us to my house in time to relieve Mrs. Dunk’s anxieties on the subject of dinner; and as the daylight was already gone, the photographic operations were postponed until the following morning. Indeed, Thorndyke had thought of taking the objects to his chambers, where a more efficient outfit was available, but, on reflection, he decided to take the photographs in my presence so that I could, if necessary, attest their genuineness on oath. Accordingly, on the following morning, we very carefully extracted the tumbler and the bottle from their respective boxes and set them up, with a black coat of mine for a background, at the end of a table. Then Thorndyke produced his small folding camera--which pulled out to a surprising length--and, having fitted it with a short-focus objective, made the exposures, and developed the plates in a dark cupboard by the light of a little red lamp from the research case. When the plates were dry we inspected them through a lens, and found them microscopically sharp. Finally, at Thorndyke’s suggestion, I scratched my initials with a needle in the corner of each plate.
“Well,” I said, when he had finished, “you have got the evidence that you wanted, and in a very complete form. It remains to be seen now whether you will ever get an opportunity to use it.”
“Don’t be pessimistic, Strangeways,” said he. “We have had exceptional luck in getting this splendid series of finger-prints. Let us hope that Fortune will not desert us after making us these gifts.”
“What is to be done with the originals?” I asked. “Shall I put them back where we found them?”
“I think not,” he replied. “If you have a safe or a secure lock-up cupboard, where they could be put away, out of sight, and from whence they could be produced if necessary, I will ask you to take charge of them.”
There was a cupboard with a good lock in the old bureau that I had found in my bedroom, and to this I conveyed the precious objects and locked them in. And so ended--at least, for the present--the episode of our raid on poor Angelina’s abode.
