The two men held their breath.
“And quite an ingenious idea, sir. Did you say Lombard Street—a safe?” he muttered. “A safe with a word? And how to conceal the word, that’s the question. I am a man of honor, you may trust me.” He made a sweeping bow to some invisible presence. “Why not conceal your word thus?”
Old George stabbed the palm of his hand with a grimy forefinger.
“Why not? Have you read my book? It is only a little book, but useful, sir, remarkably useful. The drawings and the signs are most accurate. An eminent gentleman at the British Museum assisted me in its preparation. It is called—it is called——” He passed his hand wearily over his head, and slid down into his chair again, a miserable old man muttering foolishly.
Spedding wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Nearly, nearly!” he said huskily. “By Heavens! he nearly told us.”
Connor looked at him with suspicion.
“What’s all this about the book?” he demanded. “This is the second time old George has spoken like this. It’s to do with old Reale, isn’t it?”
Spedding nodded.
“Come,” said Connor, looking at his watch, “it’s time we were moving. We’ll leave the old man to look after the house. Here, George.”