“Nice little crib, isn’t it?” Fenn remarked, glancing around. “Cosy little place, I call it.”
Something in the man’s expression as he advanced towards her brought all the iciness back to her tone and manner.
“It is a pleasant apartment,” she said, “but I am not at all sure that I like being here, and I certainly dislike our errand. It does not seem credible that, if the police have already searched, we should find the packet here.”
“The police don’t know what to look for,” he reminded her. “We do.”
There was apparently very little delicacy about Mr. Fenn. He drew a chair to the desk and began to look through a pile of papers, making running comments as he did so.
“Hm! Our friend seems to have been quite a collector of old books. I expect second-hand booksellers found him rather a mark. Some fellow here thanking him for a loan. And here’s a tailor’s bill. By Jove, Miss Abbeway, just listen to this! ‘One dress suit-fourteen guineas!’ That’s the way these fellows who don’t know any better chuck their money about,” he added, swinging around in his chair towards her. “The clothes I have on cost me exactly four pounds fifteen cash, and I guarantee his were no better.”
Catherine frowned impatiently.
“We did not come here, did we, Mr. Fenn, to discuss Mr. Orden’s tailor’s bill? I can see no object at all in going through his correspondence in this way. What you have to search for is a packet wrapped up in thin yellow oilskin, with ‘Number 17’ on the outside in black ink.”
“Oh, he might have slipped it in anywhere,” Fenn pointed out. “Besides, there’s always a chance that one of his letters may give us a clue as to where he has hidden the document. Come and sit down by the side of me, won’t you, Miss Abbeway? Do!”
“I would rather stand, thank you,” she replied. “You seem to find your present occupation to your taste. I should loathe it!”