The Chase of the Golden Plate Read Free

room where the Randolph gold plate was kept in ostentatious seclusion. As the servant entered the smoking-room the Burglar turned away from the window and went out into the ballroom. He did not carry a bundle; he did not appear to be excited.
    Fifteen or twenty minutes later the servant discovered that eleven plates of the gold service, valued roughly at $15,000, were missing. He informed Mr. Randolph. The information, naturally enough, did not elevate the host’s enjoyment of the ball, and he did things hastily.
    Meanwhile—that is, between the time when the Burglar left the smoking-room and the time when he passed out the front door—the Burglar had talked earnestly with a masked Girl of the West. It was established that, when she left him in the conservatory, she went out the front door. There she was joined by the Burglar, and then came their sensational flight in the automobile—a forty horsepower car that moved like the wind. The automobile in which the Burglar had gone to Seven Oaks was left behind; thus far it had not been claimed.
    The identity of the Burglar and the Girl made the mystery. It was easy to conjecture—that’s what the police said—how the Burglar got away with the gold plate. He went into the smoking-room, then into the dining room, dropped the gold plate into a sack and threw the sack out of a window. It was beautifully simple. Just what the Girl had to do with it wasn’t very clear; perhaps a score or more articles of jewelry, which had been reported missing by guests, engaged her attention.
    It was also easy to see how the Burglar and the Girl had been able to shake off pursuit by the police in two other automobiles. The car they had chosen was admittedly the fastest of the scores there, the night was pitch dark, and, besides, a Burglar like that was liable to do anything. Two shots had been fired at him by the lumpy courtier, who was really Detective Cunningham, but they had only spurred him on.
    These things were easy to understand. But the identity of the pair was a different and more difficult proposition, and there remained the task of yanking them out of obscurity. This fell to the lot of Detective Mallory, who represented the Supreme Police Intelligence of the Metropolitan District, happily combining a No. 11 shoe and a No. 6 hat. He was a cautious, suspicious, far-seeing man—as police detectives go. For instance, it was he who explained the method of the theft with a lucidity that was astounding.
    Detective Mallory and two or three of his satellites heard Mr. Randolph’s story, then the statements of his two men who had attended the ball in costume, and the statements of the servants. After all this Mr. Mallory chewed his cigar and thought violently for several minutes. Mr. Randolph looked on expectantly; he didn’t want to miss anything.
    â€œAs I understand it, Mr. Randolph,” said the Supreme Police Intelligence at last, “each invitation-card presented at the door by your guests bore the name of the person to whom it was issued?”
    â€œYes,” replied Mr. Randolph.
    â€œAh!” exclaimed the detective shrewdly. “Then we have a clue.”
    â€œWhere are those cards, Curtis?” asked Mr. Randolph of the servant who had received them at the door.
    â€œI didn’t know they were of further value, sir, and they were thrown away—into the furnace.”
    Mr. Mallory was crestfallen.
    â€œDid you notice if the card presented at the door by the Burglar on the evening of the masked ball at Seven Oaks bore a name?” he asked. He liked to be explicit like that.
    â€œYes, sir. I noticed it particularly because the gentleman was dressed so queerly.”
    â€œDo you remember the name?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œWould you remember it if you saw it or heard it again?”
    The servant looked at Mr. Randolph helplessly.
    â€œI don’t think I would, sir,” he answered.
    â€œAnd the Girl?