“Tim is one of the few persons in the place,” he said, “whom one can trust. As a matter of fact, he has been very useful to me more than once. Now listen to me attentively, Laverick. I am going to speak to you as one man to another.”
Laverick nodded.
“I am ready,” he said.
“Last Monday,” Bellamy went on, leaning forward and speaking in a soft but very distinct undertone, “a man was murdered late at night in the heart of the city—within one hundred yards of the Stock Exchange. The papers called it a mysterious murder. No one knows who the man was, or who committed the crime, or why. You and I, Laverick, both know a little more than the rest of the world.”
“Well?”
“The murder,” Bellamy continued, with a strange light in his eyes, “was accomplished only a stone’s throw from your office.”
Laverick lit a cigarette and threw the match away.
“Horrible affair it was,” he remarked.
Bellamy glanced toward the door,—a man had looked in and departed.
“Enough of this fencing, Laverick,” he said. “A theft was committed from the person of that murdered man, of which the general public knows nothing. A pocketbook was stolen from him containing twenty thousand pounds and a sealed document. As to who murdered the man, I want you to understand that that is not my affair. As to what has become of that twenty thousand pounds, I have not the slightest curiosity. I want the document.”