Anthony smiled.
“I just wondered, that’s all. You know a lot of trouble has been caused by memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been closed as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble when they themselves shall be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a man was Count Stylptitch? You met him and talked to him, and you’re a pretty good judge of raw human nature. Could you imagine him being a vindictive old devil?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“It’s difficult to tell. You see, that first night he was distinctly canned, and the next day he was just a high-toned old boy with the most beautiful manners overwhelming me with compliments till I didn’t know where to look.”
“And he didn’t say anything interesting when he was drunk?”
Jimmy cast his mind back, wrinkling his brows as he did so.
“He said he knew where the Koh-i-Noor was,” he volunteered doubtfully.
“Oh, well,” said Anthony, “we all know that. They keep it in the Tower, don’t they? Behind thick plate glass and iron bars, with a lot of gentlemen in fancy dress standing round to see you don’t pinch anything.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jimmy.
“Did Stylptitch say anything else of the same kind? That he knew which city the Wallace Collection was in, for instance?”
Jimmy shook his head.