“And supposing the gang does him in?” asked Anthony.
“The responsibility would then be ours—not yours. You would have delivered it to our representative and obtained a written discharge. The cheque for—er—a thousand pounds which we are instructed to hand to you will not be available until Wednesday next by the terms of our agreement with the executors of the late—er—author—you know whom I mean, but if you insist I will send my own cheque for that amount by the messenger.”
Anthony reflected for a minute or two. He had intended to keep the Memoirs until the last day of grace, because he was anxious to see for himself what all the fuss was about. Nevertheless, he realized the force of the publisher’s arguments.
“All right,” he said, with a little sigh. “Have it your own way. Send your man along. And if you don’t mind sending that cheque as well I’d rather have it now, as I may be going out of England before next Wednesday.”
“Certainly, Mr. McGrath. Our representative will call upon you first thing to-morrow morning. It will be wiser not to send anyone direct from the office. Our Mr. Holmes lives in South London. He will call in on his way to us, and will give you a receipt for the package. I suggest that to-night you should place a dummy packet in the manager’s safe. Your enemies will get to hear of this, and it will prevent any attack being made upon your apartments to-night.”
“Very well, I will do as you direct.”
Anthony hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.
Then he went on with his interrupted plan of seeking news of the slippery Giuseppe. He drew a complete blank, however. Giuseppe had worked at the restaurant in question, but nobody seemed to know anything of his private life or associates.
“But I’ll get you, my lad,” murmured Anthony, between his teeth. “I’ll get you yet. It’s only a matter of time.”
His second night in London was entirely peaceful.