cloak." Then he turned to my father and continued, "If, sir, to be an expert thief"
My father sprang to his feet. Sylvia caught Sir Matthew by the arm; I was ready to throw myself between the enraged gentlemen. Uncle John smiled broadly down on us. The vicar looked up with a mild smile. He had taken a nut and was in the act of cracking it.
"Dear, dear!" said he. "What's the matter?"
"Sir Matthew Marston," said my father, "ventures to accuse the late Colonel Merridew of theft. And that in the house which was Colonel Merridew's."
"Mr. Merridew," said Sir Matthew, in a cold, sarcastic voice, "must admit that any other explanation of the colonel's action is—well, difficult. And that in any house, whether Colonel Merridew's or another's."
"My dear friends," expostulated the vicar, "pray hear reason. The presence of these—er—articles in this bottle of port, taken in conjunction with the explanation afforded by the late Colonel Merridew's letter, makes the whole matter perfectly clear." The vicar paused, swallowed his nut, and then continued with considerable and proper pride. "In fact, although there is no reason whatsoever to think that Colonel Merridew stole the Maharajah's rubies, yet any gentleman may well suppose, and has every reason for supposing, that Colonel Merridew did steal the Maharajah's rubies."
Sir Matthew tugged at his beard, my father rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger. The vicar rose and stood between them with his hands spread out and a smile of candid appeal on his face.
"There is no reason at all to suppose Uncle John meant to steal them," observed my father.
"I have every reason for supposing that he meant to steal them," said Sir Matthew.
"Exactly, exactly," murmured the vicar; "what I say, gentlemen; just what I say."
My father smiled; a moment later Sir Matthew smiled. My father slowly stretched out his hand; Sir Matthew's hand came slowly to meet it.
"That's right," cried the vicar, approvingly. "I felt sure that you would both listen to reason."
My father looked up again at Uncle John.
"My uncle was a most uncommon man, Sir Matthew," said he.
"So I should imagine, Mr. Merridew," answered Sir Matthew.
"And now, papa," said Sylvia, "give me the Maharajah's rubies."
"A moment," said Sir Matthew; "there was a matter of £5,000."
"We cannot," said my father, "go behind the verdict of the jury."
Sir Matthew turned away and took a step toward the door.
"But," my father added, "I will settle twice the amount on my daughter-in-law."
"We will say no more about it," agreed Sir Matthew, turning back to the table.
So the matter rested, and before long I saw the Maharajah's rubies round Sylvia's neck. But as I sit opposite the rubies and under Uncle John's portrait, I wonder very much what the true story was. Uncle John was very fond of rubies, yet he was also very fond of a joke. Was the letter the truth? Or was it written in the hope of protecting himself in case his hiding-place was by some unlikely chance discovered? Or was it to save the feelings of his descendants? Or was it to annoy Sir George Marston's descendants? I cannot answer these questions. As the vicar says, there is no reason to suppose that Uncle John stole the rubies; yet any gentleman may well suppose that he stole the rubies. Uncle John smiles placidly down on me, with his glass of port between his fingers, and does not solve the puzzle. He was an uncommon man, Uncle John!
At any rate, the vicar was very much pleased with himself.
