‘Certainly I will take it. Just give me the letter, so that I have the directions clear. Thank you. Now, good-night and bon courage. Your boy will be with you tomorrow for breakfast.’

‘Oh, if only that’s true!’

‘Now, don’t worry. Leave everything in my hands.’

Mrs Peters did not spend a good night. When she slept, she had terrible dreams. Dreams where armed bandits in armoured cars fired off a fusillade at Willard, who was running down the mountain in his pyjamas.

She was thankful to wake. At last came the first glimmer of dawn. Mrs Peters got up and dressed. She sat—waiting.

At seven o’clock there came a tap on the door. Her throat was so dry she could hardly speak.

‘Come in,’ she said.

The door opened and Mr Thompson entered. She stared at him. Words failed her. She had a sinister presentiment of disaster. And yet his voice when he spoke was completely natural and matter-of-fact. It was a rich, bland voice.

‘Good-morning, Mrs Peters,’ he said.

‘How dare you sir! How dare you—’

‘You must excuse my unconventional visit at so early an hour,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘But you see, I have a matter of business to transact.’

Mrs Peter leaned forward with accusing eyes. ‘So it was you who kidnapped my boy! It wasn’t bandits at all!’

‘It certainly wasn’t bandits. Most unconvincingly done, that part of it, I thought. Inartistic, to say the least of it.’

Mrs Peters was a woman of a single idea. ‘Where’s my boy?’ she demanded, with the eyes of an angry tigress.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Mr Thompson, ‘he’s just outside the door.’

‘Willard!’

The door was flung open. Willard, sallow and spectacled and distinctly unshaven, was clasped to his mother’s heart. Mr Thompson stood looking benignly on.

‘All the same,’ said Mrs Peters, suddenly recovering herself and turning on him, ‘I’ll have the law on you for this. Yes, I will.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, Mother,’ said Willard. ‘This gentleman rescued me.’

‘Where were you?’

‘In a house on the cliff point. Just a mile from here.’

‘And allow me, Mrs Peters,’ said Mr Thompson, ‘to restore your property.’

He handed her a small packet loosely wrapped in tissue paper. The paper fell away and revealed the diamond necklace.

‘You need not treasure that other little bag of stones, Mrs Peters,’ said Mr Thompson, smiling. ‘The real stones are still in the necklace. The chamois bag contains some excellent imitation stones. As your friend said, Aristopoulous is quite a genius.’

‘I just don’t understand a word of all this,’ said Mrs Peters faintly.