"Seems to me I'm nothing but a cat's-paw," Aaron Rodd replied gloomily. "A messenger boy could have done my job."
"Don't worry," the poet advised. "By the by, you don't happen to know of a rhyme for silken, do you?"
The telephone bell, ringing once more, intervened to save the poet from the ink-pot which Aaron's fingers were handling longingly.
"What is it?" he demanded, taking up the receiver.
"Just a little message for Mr. Aaron Rodd, please," was the soft reply. "Please forgive me—it was so necessary. And the pin was for you—a little peace-offering. Will you please have the chain mended and wear it?"
That was all. There was no pause for any reply. The connection was finished. Aaron laid down the receiver, lit a cigarette and almost swaggered back to his desk.
"Sorry, old fellow," he said genially. "I can't seem to think of one for the moment. I'll have a try."
Chapter IV Ulysses of Wapping
On the following morning, Aaron Rodd, somewhat to his surprise, received a visit from his only client. Mr. Jacob Potts, who was a publican and retired pugilist, and whose appearance entirely coincided with his dual profession, looked around the apartment with a little sniff.