III
It was about ten o’clock on the morning of the next day but one that a sharp-looking, flashily-dressed individual presented himself at the door of Messrs. Gross and Sons. He was of the type that may be seen by the score any day of the week propping up the West-end bars and discoursing on racing form in a hoarse whisper.
“Mornin’,” he remarked. “Mr. Johnson here yet?”
“What do you want to see him about?” demanded the assistant.
“To tell him that your hair wants cutting,” snapped the other. “Hop along, young fellah; as an ornament you’re a misfit. Tell Mr. Johnson that I’ve a message from Mr. Perrison.”
The youth faded away, to return in a minute or two with a request that the visitor would follow him.
“Message from Perrison? What’s up?” Mr. Johnson rose from his chair as the door closed behind the assistant.
The flashy individual laughed and pulled out his cigarette-case.
“He’s pulled it off,” he chuckled. “At the present moment our one and only Joe is clasping the beauteous girl to his bosom.”
“Strike me pink—he hasn’t, has he?” Mr. Johnson slapped his leg resoundingly and shook with merriment.
“That’s why I’ve come round,” continued the other. “From Smith, I am. Joe wants to give her a little present on account.” He grinned again, and felt in his pocket. “Here it is—and he wants a receipt signed by you—acknowledging the return of the necklace which was sent out—on approval.” He winked heavily. “He’s infernally deep, is Joe.” He watched the other man as he picked up the pearls, and for a moment his blue eyes seemed a little strained. “He wants to give that receipt to the girl—so as to clinch the bargain.”
“Why the dickens didn’t he ’phone me direct?” demanded Johnson, and once again the other grinned broadly.
“Strewth!” he said, “I laughed fit to burst this morning. The ’phone at his girl’s place is in the hall, as far as I could make out, and Joe was whispering down it like an old woman with lumbago. ‘Take ’em round to Johnson,’ he said. ‘Approval—approval—you fool.’ And then he turned away and I heard him say—‘Good morning, Lady Jemima.’ Then back he turns and starts whispering again. ‘Do you get me, Bob?’ ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘I get you. You want me to take round the pearls to Johnson and get a receipt from him. And what about the other thing—you know, the money the young boob borrowed?’ ‘Put it in an envelope and send it to me here, with the receipt,’ he says. ‘I’m going out walking this morning.’ Then he rings off, and that’s that. Lord! think of Joe walking.”
The grin developed into a cackling laugh, in which Mr. Johnson joined.
“He’s deep—you’re right,” he said, admiringly. “Uncommonly deep. I never thought he’d pull it off. Though personally, mark you, I think he’s a fool. They’ll fight like cat and dog.” He rang a bell on his desk then opening a drawer he dropped the necklace inside.
“Bring me a formal receipt form,” he said to the assistant. “Have you got the other paper?” he asked, as he affixed the firm’s signature to the receipt, and the flashy individual produced it from his pocket.
“Here it is,” he announced. “Put ’em both in an envelope together and address it to Joe. I’m going along; I’ll post it.”
“Will you have a small tiddley before you go?” Mr. Johnson opened a formidable-looking safe, disclosing all the necessary-looking ingredients for the manufacture of small tiddleys.
“I don’t mind if I do,” conceded the other. “Here’s the best—and to the future Mrs. Joe.”
A moment or two later he passed through the outer office and was swallowed up in the crowd. And it was not till after lunch that day that Mr. Johnson got the shock of his life—when he opened one of the early evening papers.
“DARING ROBBERY IN WELL-KNOWN CITY FIRM.
“A most daring outrage was carried out last night at the office of Messrs. Smith and Co., the well-known financial and insurance brokers. At a late hour this morning, some time after work was commenced, the night watchman was discovered bound and securely gagged in a room at the top of the premises. Further investigation revealed that the safe had been opened—evidently by a master hand—and the contents rifled. The extent of the loss is at present unknown, but the police are believed to possess several clues.”
And at the same time that Mr. Johnson was staring with a glassy stare at this astounding piece of news, a tall, spare man with lazy blue eyes, stretched out comfortably in the corner of a first-class carriage, was also perusing it.
“Several clues,” he murmured. “I wonder! But it was a very creditable job, though I say it myself.”
Which seemed a strange soliloquy for a well-dressed man in a first-class carriage. And what might have seemed almost stranger, had there been any way of knowing such a recondite fact, was that in one of the mail bags reposing in the back of the train, a mysterious transformation had taken place. For a letter which had originally contained two documents and had been addressed to J. Perrison, Esq., now contained three and was consigned to Miss Sybil Daventry. Which merely goes to show how careful one should be over posting letters.