“Two million pounds,” replied Jimmy immediately, “that is my answer to you, Mr. Spedding. An enormous fortune for the reaching. I wouldn’t trust the Governors of the Bank of England.”
Spedding may have been annoyed as he walked to the door in the wall and opened it, but he effectively concealed his annoyance.
As the door fell backward, Jimmy saw a little apartment, four feet by six feet, with a roof he could touch with his hand. There was a fresh current of air, but from whence it came he could not discover. The only articles of furniture in the little cell were a writing table and a swing chair placed exactly beneath the electric lamp in the roof.
Spedding pulled open a drawer in the desk.
“I do not keep my desks locked here,” he said pleasantly enough.
It was characteristic of him that he indulged in no preamble, no apologetic preliminaries, and that he showed no sign of embarrassment as he slipped his hand into the drawer, and drawing forth a bulky red envelope, threw it on to the desk.
You might have forgotten that his last words were denials that the red envelope had existed. Jimmy looked at him curiously, and the lawyer returned his gaze.
“A new type?” he asked.
“Hardly,” said Jimmy cheerfully. “I once knew a man like you in the Argentine—he was hanged eventually.”
“Curious,” mused the lawyer, “I have often thought I might be hanged, but have never quite seen why——” He nearly added something else, but checked himself.