“Damn the thing! Sorry, Lucy, but I never can remember the numbers. I’ve a note of them somewhere — they’re changed every week, Mannering, just as an added sale-guard.”

“And you need plenty,” Mannering said easily.

“I look after that,” Fauntley said, rooting through his pockets. He brought out a slim black note-book at last, flicked over the pages, and muttered, “Four right — six left — seven right — ten left — four — eight.” He snapped the book to, and returned it briskly to his pocket.

Mannering deliberately looked away from him, but the numbers were turning over in his mind. He could not stop them — he was by no means sure he wanted to.

“Four right — six left — seven right — ten left.” He’d lost the last two, but, providing he looked back in time to see Fauntley’s final turning, he could pick them up again.

His eyes felt hot, and his chest was constricted. With an effort he forced a smile as Lorna’s eyes looked into his, twinkling. What would these people think if they knew what was passing through his mind?

The tumblers were clicking over now. Left, they dropped slowly to ten. Right, one — two — three — four. Left, seven or eight, he wasn’t sure which, for Fauntley broke out: “That’s got him. It needs to be secure, Mannering, but you can leave that to me. My strong-room’s the nearest thing to perfection of its kind in London — and that means the world, let me tell you. For instance” — Fauntley reached for a large leather case in the safe that yawned open now, and made Mannering’s fingers itch — “you noticed I was careful to lock the library door behind us when we came in?”

“Yes.” Mannering looked calm, even though his heart was thumping.

“To warn the servants you were on the prowl ?” mocked Lorna.

“Quiet, my dear. Also to cut off the alarms at the strongroom. I’ve left strict instructions that the library door must never be locked, because when it’s open any touching of the sale or strong-room would send the alarm off — and it’s some row, I can tell you! Ingenious, eh ?”