For a moment Jack did not reply, but eyed their visitor narrowly. He would have given a good deal to be in a position to search the pockets of the greasy, smiling senior. But there was nothing to go on—nothing at all. Politeness had to be preserved. He too, sat down. Billy and Septimus Patch did not move from the door.
"And how's your friend, Mr. Daw, progressing?" asked Jack casually.
Either Redisham was a good actor, or he was genuinely surprised by the question. "My aunt!" he exclaimed. "Who told you that he was a friend of mine?"
"I thought it was general knowledge," replied Jack. "We all heard that you considered him a little tin god, or something like that. I confess I could never have much respect for him—unless perhaps I was in his debt, or something—"
He paused, and shot a glance at Redisham to watch the effect of this loaded remark. But the senior took it very well indeed.
"General knowledge is wrong, then," he said blandly. "Daw may be all right—to those who know him, but I'm not one, or even likely to be. You don't mind if I go now?"
"Wouldn't you like to try a cup of brew?"
"Not this time, thanks. I'll bring this dicker back directly I've used it. Ta-ta." And he closed the door behind him. Billy spoke impulsively.
"Well, that's fishy if you like! Wonder whether the brute found anything? Perhaps it's better to have a look."
He rolled back the carpet, and lifted the loose board. For a moment he lay face down with his arm fumbling in the cavity. Then he rolled over and sat up, his face gone suddenly white.