“What is it,” asked Angel’s persuasive voice, “a cop?”
“It’s a fair cop,” said Bat truthfully.
CHAPTER V
THE CRYPTOGRAM
Mr. Spedding looked at his watch. He stood upon the marble-tiled floor of the Great Deposit. High above his head, suspended from the beautiful dome, blazed a hundred lights from an ornate electrolier. He paced before the great pedestal that towered up from the center of the building, and the floor was criss-crossed with the shadows of the steel framework that encased it. But for the dozen chairs that were placed in a semicircle before the great granite base, the big hall was bare and unfurnished.
Mr. Spedding walked up and down, and his footsteps rang hollow; when he spoke the misty space of the building caught up his voice and sent down droning echoes.
“There is only the lady to come,” he said, looking at his watch again.
He spoke to the two men who sat at either extreme of the crescent of chairs. The one was Jimmy, a brooding, thoughtful figure; the other was Connor, ill at ease and subdued. Behind the chairs, at some distance, stood two men who looked like artisans, as indeed they were: at their feet lay a bag of tools, and on a small board a heap that looked like sand. At the door a stolid-looking commissionaire waited, his breast glittering with medals.
Footsteps sounded in the vestibule, the rustle of a woman’s dress, and Kathleen Kent entered, closely followed by Angel Esquire. At him the lawyer looked questioningly as he walked forward to greet the girl.
“Mr. Angel has kindly offered me his help,” she said timidly—then, recognizing Connor, her face flushed—“and if necessary, his protection.”
Mr. Spedding bowed.